After The Light: Annihilate Rewritten RatedPG
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: Spock/Chapel. What really happened at the end of Operation Annihilate.
1. Chapter 1

1.

They had rigged the test cubicle hastily, but there was no doubt that it was effective. Spock had attached the high intensity light emitter to the wall himself. He had made sure that the seals on the door were light-proof as well as air-proof. He had placed the clear plastic container with the amoeba-like creature in it carefully on the chair in there, exposed it to the light, and experienced a brief, overwhelming shard of joy through his chest as he saw it was dead. The implications for the future of Deneva were phenomenal, but from a logical sense of self-preservation, the implications for himself were even better.

The next logical step was obvious, and now Spock himself sat in the test cubicle, his hands resting loosely at his sides, trying to appear relaxed. He knew the risk he was running to satisfy scientific standards. The human saying, *_between a rock and a hard place*,_ ran briefly through his mind. It was highly probable that the light would damage his eyes. He might even be killed as the creature inside him realised what was happening. But the creature was pressuring him and he was losing. Even now it was screaming through every nerve in his body. The pain would drive him to collapse or insanity soon, or drive him to do something terrible. He had to kill it first. He had to test out their theory so they could treat all those other people who were suffering without even Vulcan control to help them.

The light appeared in a brilliant glare, and he instantly screwed up his eyes against the painful whiteness, but his eyelids had no hope of cutting it out. The light was intense enough to reach through his very skin and flesh – eyelids were like tracing paper. Even the goggles McCoy had offered would probably have let through a distressing amount of light.

The pain the creature was exerting on him increased to an unbearable level, but he forced himself to stay seated, his hands gripping so hard on the sides of the chair they dented the plastic. Then, slowly, the pain faded away, and so did the bright light, and he relaxed his whole body in the wondrous freedom. Then he heard the latches on the door snap open and knew the treatment was finished.

A cold feeling trickled down through his body as he opened his eyes. He *_knew*_ he had opened his eyelids, but it was as if they had not obeyed his command. It was still dark, but not dark as if he was simply dazzled, or if the lights were off. He moved his eyes, sitting upwards, but all he saw was an almost uniform, green-tinged dimness, as if he was still looking through closed eyelids.

He knew Kirk and McCoy were watching apprehensively. He could sense them standing very close to the cubicle door, waiting to hear that he was no longer suffering. He stood up quickly, suddenly realising how hard it was just to get out of that awkward chair without orienting himself with sight. He stood, drawing in breath, straightening his top as much by habit as anything else.

'Spock. Are you all right?' asked Kirk's anxious voice on his right.

'The creature within me is gone. I am free of it – and the pain.'

He didn't know what he was doing, where he was trying to go as he walked across the lab. He only knew that he wanted to be elsewhere, somewhere he could stop and sit and try to rationalise this thing that had happened to him. He knew he had misjudged – both his situation and his orientation – as his thigh slammed into a hard edge halfway across the room. The desk – of course. In his preoccupation he had forgotten just how far out the desk reached. His hand only just found the edge as he staggered, stopping him from falling. He heard the reactions of Kirk and McCoy to his uncharacteristic stumble, and realised he had no choice but to admit what had happened. This was no temporary dazzlement – he was truly blind.

'And I am also – quite blind,' he admitted finally.

He heard both of them crossing the room to him, and hands gripped at his arms – Jim's hands, he thought.

'An equitable trade, Doctor. Thank you,' he said blankly.

He needed to sit down. Whether it was from shock or from the exhaustion of fighting the pain, his legs felt as though they were about to collapse underneath him. He knew his shock must be showing on his face, but he couldn't clear his mind enough to control it.

He reached out sideways and found the desk monitor with his fingertips. He felt his way along the desk, almost oblivious to Kirk's hand helping him. He fumbled for the chair he knew was there, and collapsed into the seat. Finally Kirk's hand withdrew, leaving him isolated in the dim obscurity again.

Footsteps entered the room, and he heard Nurse Chapel's crisp voice.

'Doctor. The results of the first test on the creature's remain...' She faltered off and he knew she had noticed the strange, horrific silence. Quickly, the steps left the room.

Spock simply sat in his chair, motionless. He was scared. No matter how deeply he searched into his mind for calming logic, he was scared, and he knew the emotion showed in his bloodless face. He sat with his hands lying in his lap, struggling to think of what to do next. Then McCoy said quietly, 'Oh no…' and Kirk snapped back, 'What is it?'

McCoy's voice was loaded with guilt and dismay. 'I threw the total spectrum of light at the creature. It wasn't necessary. I didn't stop to think that only one kind of light might have killed it.'

Spock responded out of habit, barely thinking of what he was saying. His voice resonated in his head. 'Interesting. Just as dogs are sensitive to certain sounds which humans cannot hear, these creatures, evidently, are sensitive to light which we cannot see.'

He felt numb. If he allowed himself to think of the abysmal timing of this new discovery he did not know what emotions might surface in him.

'Are you telling me Spock need not have been blinded?' Kirk asked in a terrible voice.

'I didn't need to throw the blinding white light at all, Jim.' There was a pause, then, 'Spock, I...'

'Doctor,' Spock said levelly before McCoy could launch into useless expressions of regret. 'It was my selection as well. It is done.'

'Bones,' Kirk said in a low, shaking voice. Spock couldn't tell if he was hearing anger or sorrow, or perhaps even blame. Whatever it was, Jim's human emotions were overwhelming him. 'Take care of him.'

And then he was gone, leaving an awful, empty silence behind him. Spock's ears caught the sound of the door to the corridor opening and closing. McCoy stayed for a brief moment, and then he, too, was gone.

******

McCoy followed Kirk quickly, catching him just outside the outer door. He caught his arm firmly as he tried to stride away, not letting go as Kirk tried to shake his grip loose. The guilt he felt at what he had done was suddenly shadowed by the depth of anger he felt at Kirk for just walking out and leaving both him and Spock to catch the fallout of what had happened.

'Jim,' he insisted, 'Spock needs you now.'

Kirk's voice was hard and unyielding, covering a minefield of emotion. 'And so does the population of that planet. You told me that yourself.'

'I don't think this has anything to do with Deneva,' McCoy hissed in an undertone. 'I think this has to do with you being scared to stay in there with him. You wouldn't even speak to him!'

'Spock's a Vulcan, Doctor,' Kirk snapped, finally pulling away from McCoy's grasp and moving on down the corridor. 'He doesn't need me to sit there holding his hand.'

'Jim, you're his closest friend, and he's scared, no matter what colour blood there is in his veins,' McCoy insisted, striding after him. 'Just go be with him, please.'

Kirk turned in the corridor, a moment of sadness breaking through into his eyes. 'How can I, Bones? I told him not to wear goggles. You told me he could go blind and I sent him in there. You saw the look on his face when he came out. I might as well have killed him.'

'Jim, Spock needs you now more than he ever has. He's not blaming you.'

'I have to go to the bridge,' Kirk said flatly, turning again and covering the final few yards to the turbolift. 'Tell him I'll be down to see him later.'

'God damn you, Jim, Spock needs you,' McCoy snapped putting a hand against the turbolift doors to stop them closing.

A curtain seemed to have been drawn down over the captain's eyes. He wouldn't look at McCoy as he said, 'I've got a million people down on Deneva who need me too. They're dying as we speak. You know that, Doctor.'

'And what am I supposed to do?' McCoy hissed furiously.

'See to your duty, Doctor,' Kirk said tautly, with a diamond hard glitter in his eyes.

'I will, Captain,' McCoy nodded, muttering as the captain went into the turbolift, 'which includes seeing that no one else fetches up blind when we irradiate that planet.'

He stood for a moment, staring at the closed doors of the turbolift, but seeing in his mind the look on Spock's face. Despite his anger at Kirk for feeling just the same, the last thing in the world he wanted to do was to face the Vulcan after doing such a thing to him. 'Hell,' he muttered softly. He closed his eyes, felt the helpless anger welling inside him. '*_Hell*_,' he said again. Then he let loose the anger, beating his fist over and over into the wall, swearing with more vehemence than he had expressed in a long time.

******

Spock sat still for a moment on the chair in the lab, hands resting on his knees, fighting the urge to curl his fingers around the seat's edges. From the flurry of footsteps as Kirk had left the lab, he assumed that McCoy had followed him. From the tight, tension-laden air that had hung around him since his revelation he guessed also that Jim would not be back very soon, and although McCoy would probably see it as his duty to return, the same tense, emotional cloud would follow him. They both seemed overwhelmed with human guilt and anger – most illogical, useless emotions. He would expect neither of them to sit about nursemaiding him anyway, since both had duties to fulfil that involved the fate of an entire planet.

He sat for a moment longer, exhaling lightly and trying to bring calm back to his mind. Nothing could be done. His injury was more or less self-inflicted, and as he had said to McCoy, it was, indeed, an equitable trade. To finally be able to draw breath without pain shuddering through every nerve was a profound relief. Even the darkness held some measure of relief – it was no longer painful to look on bright light, painful to turn his eyes in his head or to try to focus on what was before him.

He had to persuade his shocked body to move. The exhaustion now the pain was gone was overwhelming him, and if he didn't move he was in danger of staying in this chair for hours. He flexed his hands in his lap. He moved one of them sideways to the desk, trying to connect himself with reality, with something normal. He felt the hard, cool surface under his palm. Then his fingertips touched a padd on the desk. He felt over it, and found a stylus lying on top. He had left it there as he conducted the tests on the creature alongside Chapel, and forgotten about it. Distracted as he had been by the pain, he could not remember what he had written there, and now he had no ability to find out. This desk, this centre of study with its padd and stylus and computer screen, was useless to him, except as an ancillary adjunct to a chair.

He could not carry on thinking like this. If he did not move, he would simply carry on wallowing in useless emotionalism. He settled his resolve, and stood up, touching one hand lightly to the desk beside him. The door was to his left, behind him, approximately twenty centimetres away from the chair. He knew that. With an eidetic memory, he should know exactly where everything was in the room. Nevertheless, the pain in his right thigh reminded him how he had walked into the desk. Orientation, it seemed, was everything.

Spock felt out to the wall behind him, and slid his hand along it to the open doorway. He stepped through and took a few steps into the room beyond. Again, his orientation was off, and he nudged something with his side. He stopped, feeling a counter that he knew was covered in fragile instruments, and probably had a lab stool somewhere near it, in his path. He acknowledged that he was not currently proficient to navigate alone, and asked uncertainly;

'Nurse Chapel? I require your assistance.'

She was there, as he had suspected. He heard her jump up and come at a swift pace across the room to him, babbling, 'Oh, Mr Spock. I was afraid – I was – well, I don't know what I was afraid of, but when Dr McCoy and the Captain ran out like that – '

'The treatment worked,' Spock said carefully, trying to calm her with his tone of voice. It was indescribably odd to stand here listening to her voice when he could see nothing. Not ten minutes ago he had been standing beside her in this lab, analysing test results with her, barely glancing at her because he foresaw no need to take a final measure of her appearance. 'The creature is dead and I am no longer in pain. However, the light treatment has – damaged – my eyes.'

'Through the goggles?' Chapel began wonderingly.

Spock realised she still was not aware of the totality of his blindness. His eyes were directed towards her, from habit, and there was probably no discernible external damage. 'It was necessary for the experiment to undergo the treatment without goggles,' he said solemnly, leaving the rest unspoken.

There was a shocked, still silence, and then Chapel said slowly, 'But no one's eyes could stand up to that intensity of light – not even a Vulcan's. It would totally destroy the optic nerve…'

He reached out tentatively to touch her arm, guessing at her position by the sound of her voice. The solidity of her arm under her sleeve made him want to clutch at it, to hang on to something real and human, to someone who could see in this dark place. He was struggling hard to hold on to his equilibrium – all he wanted to do was sit very still and mourn what he had lost. 'I know, Christine. Hence my request for your assistance.'

There was a long, hard silence again, and when Chapel spoke it sounded as if she was fighting as hard as Spock to cling on to professional detachment.

'Mr Spock, do you know where Dr McCoy went?'

'I believe he followed the captain,' Spock said. He had a strong sense that McCoy was near – perhaps just outside the lab – but he was also picking up just as strong an impression of reluctance and guilt. Like the Captain, he obviously had no wish to face Spock's condition either. The last thing Spock felt he needed right now was the trouble of dealing with McCoy's guilt as well as his own shock.

'Okay,' Chapel said slowly, moving away from him. He heard her depress the button on the intercom, and say crisply, 'Chapel to Dr McCoy.'

After a moment the reply came, 'McCoy here. Are you with Spock, Christine?'

'Yes, he's here,' she said, managing to insert a wealth of accusation into those few words.

'Is – er – is he okay?' There was a weight of repressed guilt in his tone.

'I am well, Doctor,' Spock cut in, raising his voice. 'You need not worry about me.'

'Doctor, would you like me to - ' Chapel hesitated, searching for the right words, but there didn't seem to be any tactful ones. 'Would you like me to take care of Mr Spock?'

As McCoy hesitated, Spock cut in again, 'There is little you can do here, Doctor. You must have other duties that require your attention.'

Another pause, and McCoy finally said, 'Okay. Okay, Spock. I got a lot of work with casualties from the planet. I'm going to treat young Peter Kirk first, then we're going to beam the weakest people into the cargo hold and treat them immediately with basic ultraviolet, so I need to organise eye shields and triage teams and… Well, you know. McCoy out.'

The channel cut out, and Spock stood in the silence that seemed to fill the air. Finally Chapel broke it, coming back to his side and asking, 'Did the doctor examine your eyes, Mr Spock?'

Spock shook his head. 'I believe there is very little need.' He had to force himself to keep his hands at his sides and not reach out for her again.

'How much can you see at the moment? Can you see anything at all?'

Spock moved his eyes about, trying to assess the indistinct field before him. 'I would say I have been left with nothing but a very weak light perception. It is as if I am looking through closed eyelids. I *_believe*_ I can identify the direction of light, albeit imprecisely.' He held his palm out towards a point above and in front of him. 'If the light is there, as it seems to be.'

'It's in that area,' Chapel nodded. 'It's as if there's something occluding your vision, Mr Spock.'

Spock sighed. 'I would say that is obvious, Nurse Chapel,' he said, his voice tinged with irony.

'No, it's not at all obvious,' she argued. 'If your optic nerves had been destroyed by the light you wouldn't have any light perception at all.' He heard the warble of a medical scanner. 'There's very little light reaching the optic centres of your brain, but I can't discern major damage to the optic nerve. You should come to sickbay for a full examination.'

Spock nodded automatically. It was logical to submit to an examination, however little he relished walking through the corridors like this, subjected to the scrutiny of the ship's crew. He could not stay in the lab forever. But to leave the lab was to acknowledge that this was a completed action – that he had been blinded and there was nothing he could do about it but accept it and move on. Move on to where?

'I will – I - ' He stammered to a stop. He had never felt like this before – so overwhelmed with unnamed emotion that he didn't know what to do, how to speak. He was blind. What would he do now? Where would he go? How could he live like this? Suddenly he felt as if walls were closing in on him, as if his lungs were being compressed by an iron band. Was this was a panic attack felt like? How illogical to react in such a way…

Chapel's hand closed over his, holding it firmly. She was speaking loudly and clearly, as if she had been speaking before and he had not heard.

'Mr Spock, come over here. There's a chair here.'

He followed her hand, almost stumbling in his preoccupation, and sat down on the chair she guided him to. He could hear her kneeling down in front of him, always touching his hand, linking him to reality. It would be all too easy to slip away into his mind.

'I am all right,' he murmured automatically, trying to keep his face composed despite his panic. 'I am all right.'

'Yes, I know,' she replied softly. 'But humour me. Try to breathe slowly and deeply.' She squeezed his hand firmly, then said, 'I'll be right back, Mr Spock.'

She moved away, fiddled with something, then returned swiftly, coming back to touch his hand again. Spock would normally have recoiled from so much physical contact, but he could not bring himself to draw away from the touch. He was exhausted, and he barely knew which way to turn except to the comfort of another person.

'I know it's a cliché, but this may help,' she said, putting a hot cup into his hand. He brought it to his lips and tasted hot, fragrant black tea, sweetened with sugar. Just the action of sipping slowly, tasting the liquid, and letting the hot tea slip down his throat, helped to calm him, focussing his mind on control. He let the hot water burn his mouth just to be able to concentrate on managing the pain, drawing his thoughts away from his uncertain future. It was futile to ponder on what may happen a month, a day, even an hour from now.

'Thank you, Miss Chapel,' he said finally, passing the cup back to her. He hesitated a moment, then said, 'Is it fully necessary for me to go to the sickbay? I believe I would be better off in my quarters. I do not require medical attention, and I am – *_tired*_.'

'I would be happier if I could observe you, just for a little while,' Chapel told him firmly. No amount of personal feeling would override her medical diligence. 'Besides, you need a proper examination, remember?'

'Of course,' Spock nodded. Perhaps he could pull rank and refuse to accompany her, but he acknowledged that he was in an unfortunate position. He doubted he could make it all the way back to his rooms without help, if he could not make it through the lab without running into obstacles. He stood, noticing as he did that his legs felt oddly weak. For a moment he concentrated on restoring his biological rhythms, asserting his mind over his body's panicked reaction to his disability. He felt almost too tired to walk to sickbay, but he refused to be pushed in a chair. He had to control his exhaustion for just a little longer. He reached out his hand awkwardly. 'As I requested before, would you assist me, Miss Chapel?'

'Of course,' she murmured, moving closer to him. 'Take my arm – like this,' she said, positioning his outstretched hand on her upper arm. 'Try to relax,' she urged him, as he gripped at her arm awkwardly. 'Just let me guide your movements. You'll feel through my arm which way I'm turning or – well – stairs won't be a problem here – but if the floor rises or falls, or if we need to stop.'

'You have done this before,' Spock said as she began moving, narrowing his focus down so that he was intensely aware of the nurse's movements and the noises around them.

'Oh, only a long while ago, Mr Spock,' Chapel replied, interrupting herself briefly to warn him, 'Going through the door now,' as she pulled him in a little closer. 'If it was a hinged door I'd tell you which side it was opening on, but it doesn't matter for a sliding one.'

Spock nodded silently, realising she was teaching him things as if she assumed the blindness would be permanent, or at least prolonged.

'I was stationed on Oriva 3 for a while during my training,' she continued as they turned into the corridor. 'I spent some time helping the survivors of the Dekalan disaster. There were a few cases of visual impairment due to the nature of the chemicals released.'

'Ah,' Spock nodded, thinking, *_Is this what I have become – a case of visual impairment?*_ He had acquainted himself with the Dekalan disaster in the past, and knew the fates of most of those Starfleet officers who had suffered 'visual impairment'. Few of them were still in the fleet now.

'I suppose it was a bit of a crash course,' Chapel continued, guiding him deftly about something. 'I took an official course later.'

'I see,' Spock murmured, realising that the *_something*_ he had been moved around was a crewmember, and that the ship rumour-mill was already beginning. How long before everyone on the ship knew, before people began to arrange reasons to come to sickbay to see if it was really true? He did not relish being seen in this state by anyone. 'Nurse…' he began cautiously.

'Yes, Mr Spock?'

'You must have spent a good deal of time with the victims of Dekalan. How – Would you mind explaining how they adapted to their visual disabilities - emotionally?'

'There's generally a four part process,' Chapel began carefully, aware that Spock was asking her as much how he would adapt as how those other people had. 'Fear, anger, grief and acceptance – not necessarily in that order. I – saw a lot of fear and anger, but as they began to regain their independence those emotions began to fade. By the time I'd finished my rotation there some of them were attending a rehabilitation school, and were learning how to manage day to day without any aid.'

'But they were planet-based – a very different environment to a starship,' Spock mused, betraying the centre of his concern.

'I think learning to adapt on a starship would be easier than in the unpredictable environment of a planet,' Chapel offered. 'Especially if – the patient concerned – had senses of touch and hearing that were superior to human ones. And there are science posts on the _Enterprise_ that blindness would make very little difference to.'

'There is little place for a blind man on an active starship,' Spock said faintly, almost to himself.

'Don't write yourself off yet, Mr Spock,' she told him firmly, pausing for a moment in the corridor. 'I haven't even checked your eyes yet. There might be treatment possibilities. Even if there aren't, you'll adapt, I promise.'

'It is preferential to assume permanence than to naively await a miracle that never happens,' Spock said in a level voice.

'Well, then – supposing we assume permanence – that are a lot of things I can teach you that will make life easier,' she said firmly. 'And we'll work on the miracle.'

Spock stood for a moment considering her words, wishing briefly that he could succumb to the unconditional love and support of the woman next to him. Then he nodded, carefully pushing away both that thought and the insecurities that were needling away at his control.

'Shall we continue?' he said, aware that they were standing in the middle of the corridor.

'Of course. Right, into the turbolift,' Chapel told him, and he followed her arm, always lagging a little uncertainly behind her certain movements. He realised he was faintly aware of the air currents and echoes changing as the space narrowed, giving him at least a shadowy impression of the space he was in. But no matter how firmly he told himself to trust the nurse he could not wholeheartedly walk at normal pace into the featureless blur that surrounded him.

'Deck seven,' she commanded, and the lift began to move.

Usually this turbolift would be taking him to the bridge. Spock was suddenly reminded of the ongoing battle to save the Denevan people, and the part he should be playing in it.

'You have studied the experiment report, Nurse,' he said abruptly. 'Will you relay the findings to me?'

'The creature was killed by a fifteen second one million candlepower per square inch burst white light, of which ultraviolet radiation was the effective part,' she recited smoothly. 'But – I'm worried that an ultraviolet burst of such intensity would be at least as dangerous as white light to a planet of people unprotected by anti-radiation treatments.'

'Of course,' Spock nodded. All ship's crew took treatments to counteract any stray radiation resulting from space travel, but a planet-bound population would have no such need. 'Further research is needed to filter out all but the pertinent effects.'

'Yes,' Chapel said, somewhat reluctantly.

Spock could hear her unspoken thought – how would he carry out such research without sight? Or perhaps he was overreacting. Probably she merely wondered if he was capable at the present time of carrying out the research – and she was probably right.

'You will assist me?' he said, half as a question, half a command.

'Of course – when you've had your eyes checked.'

The lift halted, and Spock followed Chapel's moving arm out into the corridor. He considered demurring, and insisting on returning to the lab – but he was in a poor bargaining position, especially since the relevant research could easily be carried out in sickbay. It was only a few yards to sickbay from the lift, and as they entered Spock smelt the distinctive scents of medicines and antiseptics. Chapel took him into the ward and over to a bed.

'Just wait here for a moment, Mr Spock, and I'll go set up the equipment in the examination room.'

Spock nodded, sitting down on the bed he found behind him and trying hard not to dwell on his sightlessness in the silence he was left in. Much better to think on the Denevan problem than to focus on his own troubles. His loss was trifling compared to the ongoing death and devastation wreaked by the parasites below. Jim had lost his brother and his sister-in-law. His nephew was lying sedated, fighting for survival. But – Spock's blindness was *_his*_ loss, and he couldn't deny its impact on his emotional control. If this sightlessness were to continue for a day, for a week, for the rest of his two hundred year lifespan… Spock clenched his hands unconsciously on the bedspread, fighting another wave of fear in a flood that was becoming harder to suppress.

Then he became distracted from his emotional condition by an odd insistence in his bowels. He refused to press the emergency button merely to be taken to the toilet when he was perfectly capable of walking, so he rose from the bed and made his way cautiously across the room to where he knew the door to the bathroom to be. A moment of careful feeling along the wall as he reached the side of the room, and the bathroom door slid open. As he stepped inside, however, the feeling in his bowels transferred to an overwhelming queasiness in his stomach and throat, and before he could orient himself to a toilet or washbasin he found himself on his knees and vomiting profusely onto the floor.

He knelt there miserably for a moment as the feeling settled, all strength having fled from his legs and arms. There was a bitter taste in his mouth that gave him the urge to vomit again, but he forced himself to ignore it. He put a hand tiredly to the floor to lean on, and put his palm straight into the mess before him. He considered standing to leave the room, but as he moved an incapacitating dizziness flooded his mind. It would be impossible for him to balance right now, especially without sight.

Spock settled back on his haunches, clutching his arms about his legs and resting his head on his knees. He would have pulled the emergency cord, but in this unfocussed fog he didn't know where to find it. The only other alternative was crawling on his hands and knees out of the room, and he would not risk being seen in such a position by miscellaneous sickbay staff or patients. He would just have to wait until the dizziness subsided, and make his way back to the ward then.

At that moment the door opened and he was aware of Nurse Chapel rushing to his side, her Feinburger whirring before she even spoke to him.

'I wondered where you were, Mr Spock. Are you all right?'

Her hand was on his shoulder, not attempting to raise his head from his knees but just imparting gentle reassurance to him.

'I believe so,' he whispered harshly, his voice roughened by his recent effort. 'But I am dizzy.'

'Okay,' she murmured, keeping her hand on him as she scanned him again. Spock couldn't help but relax under the mental emanations of reassurance and concern that he sensed through her touch. 'I forgot that even though the creature's dead it's still inside your system. Its remains are being broken down by your body, but there's a non-lethal toxin present in it that's being filtered into your stomach.'

'I am well aware of the Vulcan method of ridding oneself of toxins,' Spock reminded her, somewhat faintly.

'Then you also know that vomiting is the best method, and I shouldn't give you an anti-emetic.'

Spock nodded assent, finally able to raise his head a few inches. 'I – must apologise for the mess I have made.'

'It's fine – part of the job,' Chapel said brightly. 'Have you had any diarrhoea?'

Spock shook his head. 'I believed I may, but the feeling has subsided.'

'Okay, that's good. Can you stand, Mr Spock?'

'I believe so,' Spock nodded, clambering slowly to his feet with Chapel's hand under his elbow.

'Come over to the basin,' she told him, gently helping him across the small space to where he could lean on the counter. 'You must want to wash your face.'

'Thank you,' Spock nodded gratefully, leaning to the noise of the faucet she had turned on. He washed his hands and splashed the water over his face, swilling some into his mouth to wash away the bitter, nausea-inducing taste.

'Okay,' she murmured, passing him a towel. 'If you come back to your bed I'll get you a change of clothes. You're a bit – spattered – for want of a better term,' she told him.

'Uniform,' Spock insisted, leaning heavily on her arm as he followed her from the room. 'I do not need to be in patient's clothing.'

'All right,' she nodded, letting him sink down onto the bed. 'A change of uniform. Just lie down for a few minutes until you feel better. Here's a bowl, in case you get the urge again,' she said, pressing a container into Spock's hands, 'and I'll be back in a moment with your fresh uniform. Oh, and I'll page a doctor to check your eyes.'

'Christine – ' Spock said swiftly, catching her before she could leave with the rare use of her forename. 'Must you call a doctor? I understand you are fully capable of most medical practices.'

'Well,' she said slowly.

'I – do not wish to be seen,' Spock admitted reluctantly. 'Not just yet.' McCoy was occupied with the crisis on Deneva., and he was not anxious to deal with the _Enterprise_'s current second doctor, a man with little experience of Vulcan medicine or Vulcan behaviour.

'All right,' she finally agreed. 'As long as you allow Dr McCoy to repeat the checks later, just for regulations. I can't sign off the report.'

'Regulations, of course,' Spock nodded.

He sat still while Chapel disappeared into another room and returned with fresh clothes. He was impressed with her careful solicitude in helping him change without overwhelming or embarrassing him with too much assistance, intervening only to tend to the bruise that was evidently developing on his right thigh. Once changed she led him into the examination room and showed him to a chair.

'I'll just put the lights out… If you can just hold still with your eyes open,' she said, sitting down opposite. 'I'm bringing the optical scope close to your face now. You've seen it before, haven't you, Mr Spock?'

'Indeed,' Spock replied, keeping his head carefully still as he replied.

'I'm just adjusting the height,' she continued smoothly, 'and bringing it up to your eyes now. Hold your eyes as if you were looking straight forward.'

Spock complied as he felt the cold edges of the eye-piece pressing against his skin. He imagined Chapel must be leaning very close now. He could feel the slight warmth of her breath on his face. Then the darkness lightened very slightly into a dim green.

'You have a faint response to light,' she told him.

'Yes, I can perceive a slight lightening,' Spock said, taking care to keep his head still.

'Look up,' she murmured. 'Down… Right… Left… Odd,' she muttered, swinging the device away from Spock's face. 'Can you hold still again? I'm just going to shine a light in your eyes again, but I'll be checking visually this time, not with the scope.'

The nurse leant in very close again, and Spock felt her fingertip lightly lifting his eyelid. She was so close that he could feel her hair touching his face. He held his breath, aware that the sweet scent of her breath and skin were not the first things he should be thinking of, but unable to ignore them.

'Mr Spock, is there any anatomy of the Vulcan eye that I might not be familiar with?' Chapel asked finally. 'Any difference to the human eye? I thought they were the same.'

'They do have basically the same construction,' Spock nodded. 'But the Vulcan eye has an inner nictitating membrane which served to help block out the intensity of the Vulcan sun when necessary.'

'There is *_very little*_ damage to your optic nerves,' Chapel explained. 'Only enough to cause slight visual disturbances, that could be healed with time. But there is some kind of membrane behind your pupil stopping me from visually inspecting your retina.'

'The nictitating membrane is only supposed to flicker across the eye briefly to protect it from sudden exposure to bright sunlight – an evolutionary feature from millennia past, when the sun was brighter. It is quite anachronistic now. We barely acknowledge its existence. I doubt it has ever functioned in me before this.'

'Well, I don't know how to retract it without damaging your eyes, Mr Spock.  
I don't even know if it can be retracted, or removed. I imagine Dr McCoy would want to consult with doctors on Vulcan.'

'But there is a chance?' Spock asked tentatively, unwilling to cling too tightly to a promise that might not be true.

'There may be,' Chapel nodded, touching his arm to help him up from the chair. 'There *_may*_ be,' she repeated, stressing the uncertainty of the situation.

Spock stood very still for a moment, clenching his hands at his sides. Then he reached out awkwardly towards Chapel's voice, stopping just short of touching her for fear of hitting an inappropriate area. 'Thank you, Christine.'

Suddenly he found himself being pulled into a hug, and after a moment he reciprocated, bringing his hands up to lightly touch her back before stepping away.

'Thank you,' he said again.

'You do understand how slim the chance is, don't you, Mr Spock?' she reiterated anxiously. 'I don't want you to get your hopes up.'

'There is little logic in hope,' Spock said flatly, pushing himself back into a more Vulcan stoicism. 'Either I will regain my sight, or I will not. At present, it seems best to proceed as if I will not. But you should let Dr McCoy know of your findings. Are you aware of his whereabouts?'

'I – er – I spoke to him again earlier, before I set up the optical scanner,' Chapel replied awkwardly. 'He was back in the lab. I think he's been running between there and the casualties in the cargo hold. He's – been working to make the ultraviolet satellites safe to the Denevan population,' she said reluctantly.

'I see,' Spock nodded, his expression changing. It was most illogical to feel excluded at McCoy doing the work he should be doing, while also treating injured patients, but he did all the same. 'Would you take me to the intercom?'

'Just here, Mr Spock,' she said, leading him across the room and guiding his hand to the button.

Spock hesitated for a moment, then depressed the button and said, 'Spock to Dr McCoy.'

He heard the channel open, but there was a slight pause before McCoy's voice said rather guiltily, 'Spock. Are you all right?'

'With one exception, I am quite fine, Doctor, as I told you earlier,' Spock said smoothly. He had been misleading McCoy over his medical health for years now – it was no harder to mislead him regarding his emotional condition. 'Nurse Chapel tells me you have been working on the radiation type needed to combat the parasites. I was proposing to do that work myself.'

'Spock, goddammit, you've just been blinded,' McCoy exploded, his guilt manifesting itself as usual as anger. 'How do you propose carrying out scientific research? Take a goddamn break.'

Spock sighed silently. For all of Chapel's encouragement and all of his own efforts at control, he suddenly felt intensely obsolete.

'Anyway, I'm close to an appropriate solution,' McCoy continued with a more conciliatory tone. 'We don't need you now.'

Spock released the intercom button without replying, and began to move towards the door which he knew was on his left.

'Mr Spock – ' Chapel began.

'I am going to my quarters,' Spock said dully. 'I believe I have been put on medical leave.'

'You need to stay in sickbay for now, sir,' Chapel insisted. 'You're still being affected by the alien's remains.'

'I am going to my quarters,' Spock repeated more firmly. 'With or without assistance.'

'Oh, you forgot to tell Dr McCoy about your inner eyelid,' Chapel suddenly realised. 'I'll call back and tell him.'

Spock stiffened minutely, reaching out as if to stay her hand. 'I did not forget, Miss Chapel. I do not wish McCoy to know yet.'

'But he may be able to restore your sight!' Chapel protested in confusion. 'Why - ?'

'Dr McCoy is currently working to save millions of Denevan lives,' Spock said tonelessly. 'He is treating individual casualties. He is also needed to treat the captain's nephew. I will not distract him with another project that he will take on because of a misplaced feeling of guilt.'

'Mr Spock, I don't fully understand the construction of your eyes, but it is likely that the longer you delay the less chance you will have of recovering your sight,' Chapel said, mirroring his flat tone, but trying to push all the serious insistence into it that she could. Perhaps he would listen to that more than emotionalism. 'There's heightened cell healing going on in your eyes right now that could seal that inner eyelid closed permanently - if it isn't already. Now, I may have completed the training for my MD before I signed aboard this ship as a nurse, but I have never practised, and I simply don't know enough about Vulcan physiology to perform the surgery myself. Neither does Dr Phillips. Dr McCoy is the only person who may be able to help you.'

The tension that rippled through Spock's frame betrayed his feelings, although his voice remained absolutely level. 'Nevertheless, you will not tell him, Nurse. I have not been relieved of my commission yet, so you may take that as an order from a superior officer. Now, I am going to my quarters, even if I must feel my way there.'

Chapel sighed, and said softly, 'You don't need to do that, Mr Spock. I'll help you. But do you feel well enough to walk all that way?'

'The nausea has abated somewhat, for now.'

'All right,' she said finally. 'Take my arm. But will you grant me one thing?'

Spock turned towards her, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

'Let me stay with you for a while – just a couple of hours – to monitor your condition and make sure you can manage alone. Blindness aside, you're exhausted, and your body's reacting to a moderate toxin. You shouldn't be alone.'

Spock inclined his head, once, and reached out for her arm. A part of him was grateful that he would not be alone to dwell on his situation, although an equal part of him wanted to be allowed simply to lie alone in silence, trying to make some sense of this new world into which he had been thrust. At least if the nurse came with him, however, he would be sure that she was not breaking his orders to call McCoy. He steeled himself for the long walk through the corridors again, and followed Nurse Chapel through the door.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

As they exited the turbolift onto Deck 5 Spock felt a tension in Chapel's movement, and became aware of someone standing in the corridor. It was impossible to mistake the distinctive mind emanations of Kirk. No human could shield their mind from Vulcan awareness without extensive training, and Jim was no exception. The Captain's breath was shallow and tense though, as if he was struggling to make no sound, and there were none of the usual creaks or rustles from the slight movement a relaxed person made. Spock drew in breath and continued to walk down the hall. It was obvious Jim was not ready to speak to him yet – the aura of guilt and distress hung in the air like a fog. As they passed him Spock could almost feel his bulk near him – perhaps he was feeling the way the air currents changed again. Jim still said nothing, and Spock carried on, only a slight slumping of his shoulders displaying his disappointment at what had occurred.

'You know where my room is, Nurse?' he asked as they continued, as a way to cover the awkward pause that had occurred.

'Yes, of course, Mr Spock,' she nodded. 'Just down the corridor here.'

'Of course,' Spock echoed. Of course she would know where his room was. He knew that he was one of the most important people on the ship to her. As she led him in through his door he relaxed slightly, grateful to be back somewhere where the surroundings were so familiar, where there were no curious people to watch him as he walked past.

'Thank you,' he said, letting go of her arm and finding his own way slowly across his room to his desk chair. It was wonderful just to be able to sit still in his own room, in the absence of pain. 'Thank you,' he repeated more softly as she followed him across the room. 'Your help has been invaluable, Christine.'

'It's what I'm here for,' she replied quickly. Spock got the distinct impression that she was looking away in embarrassment as she said that.

'You have taken care of me beyond the call of duty,' Spock continued, reaching out across his desk in a silent request for her hand. She reached out tentatively, as if she was unsure of his motives, and touched his searching fingers. He gripped onto her hand gently, content to merely be touching like that for a few moments. 'I – am not sure what to do now, Miss Chapel,' he began honestly. 'I am not used to inactivity.'

'You rest,' she told him firmly.

Spock nodded sombrely, but he was feeling the odd waves of panic rising in his chest again. What was he to do now? Just sit, and rest, for as long as this blindness stayed with him? Leave the ship, and sit in a chair in an unfamiliar house somewhere, receiving disability pension, perhaps with some kind of home help to take care of him until he could take care of himself? How could he live in this strange, debilitating dark fog?

'How do you feel now?' Chapel asked, holding out her scanner towards him.

'Extremely tired. And a little nauseous,' Spock said, although truthfully the uneasy stirrings were lower down than his stomach. He sat still for a moment, then got to his feet. 'If you will excuse me for a moment.'

'Just call out if you need me,' Chapel said, reading his intentions as he moved towards the bathroom.

Spock nodded silently, and disappeared through into the bathroom that he shared with his captain. He returned a few minutes later, and found his way back to his chair, looking slightly pale.

'Were you sick again, Mr Spock?' Chapel asked him.

'A little,' Spock said vaguely. 'Amongst other things…'

'Do you need me to clean anything up?'

'I do not believe so, nurse,' he said firmly. 'I was – more prepared this time.'

'Well, the good news is that I can't read any more of the toxin in your body,' the nurse told him. 'You should be fine now.'

'For that, I am grateful,' Spock nodded. 'The nausea seems to have dissipated, at least.'

He sat silently again, wondering how he was to pass the evening. He had three ongoing essays for journals that he had been neglecting since his infection by the creature on Deneva, but it would be impossible at the moment to continue with them. Even if he could dictate to the computer, he had no way of studying the necessary literature and diagrams. He was not sure it would ever be possible to read scientific diagrams and graphs without sight.

'When did you eat last, Mr Spock?' Chapel asked suddenly, cutting through his thoughts.

He shook his head distractedly. 'I – do not know. I don't want to – '

He trailed off. How could he explain that he was fearful even of eating before another person, of spilling his food down his front or having to use his fingers?

'I remember little of the hours leading up to the light treatment. I do not believe I ate anything.'

'Well, if you let me know what you'd like I'll get the galley to bring it up here, and I can show you the clock system so you can find your food.'

Spock sat silently. He could not put off eating simply because he was scared to. The sooner he learnt how to manage, the sooner this blindness would become easier to live with.

'I – believe the galley is producing an appetising roast pepper dish at the moment,' he said finally. 'Feta stuffed peppers, boiled potatoes and salad, if I remember correctly.'

'You'd like that?'

Spock nodded. 'But *_I*_ can call the galley, Nurse,' he said, reaching out towards the intercom, finding it almost without hesitation. 'Would you also like some food?'

'I'll have the same, Mr Spock,' she smiled. 'It sounds good.'

When the plates arrived Chapel uncovered Spock's and put it on the desk before him.

'Here's your napkin,' she said, handing it to him. 'Now, your plate's just in front of you, knife and fork where you'd expect them on either side, and your drink on your right, just above the tip of your knife.'

'You spoke of the clock system,' he said.

'Yes. If you imagine your plate as an analogue clock face, you have three stuffed peppers at eight, your potatoes are at four, and your salad's at twelve.'

'A supremely simple idea,' Spock nodded, reaching out to feel the edge of the plate in front of him.

'Now, if you take your knife and fork, you can use them to - '

'I think I can manage, Nurse,' Spock interrupted, picking up his cutlery and feeling tentatively for the food on his place.

It was more difficult than he had imagined working out what he was touching when he was feeling it through a metal knife tip and fork prongs, but with careful concentration he identified one of the stuffed peppers and carefully sliced a bite sized piece off. He finished his meal with a small sense of satisfaction. Eating had been *_frustrating*_, but he had spilled very little food and had encountered very few problems, despite his exhaustion and despite his blindness.

'Better?' Chapel asked as he put his cutlery down on his empty plate.

'You should congratulate me,' Spock said somewhat morosely, his sense of accomplishment suddenly deflating. 'I have managed to eat an entire meal without incident. A grand achievement.'

There was a long silence, then finally Chapel said softly, 'Mr Spock, no one's pretending this is going to be easy. But it is going to get easier, and you will be able to do most of the things you always could, with time and practice and a few adaptive devices. The only real way to adapt is to just keep trying new things.'

Spock nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair, trying to gain control of the insistent, negative emotions. He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath, visualising the air settling through his body and driving out negativity.

'I know, Christine,' he said finally. 'Please forgive my outburst. I – am experiencing some difficulty in reconciling myself to this change.'

'I know,' she nodded, piling the plates up together and putting them back on the tray. 'But you do realise you've had very little time so far.'

'Yes, I do realise that,' Spock nodded. How could so few hours feel like so long?

'You'll adjust to this, physically and emotionally, and it'll get easier after time.'

'Yes, of course,' he nodded distractedly. The implications of the phrase _after time_ were not something he wanted to dwell on. These past hours of blindness were bad enough, but the idea of waking up morning after morning and never being able to see was horrifying to him. 'I – imagine these first hours are the most difficult.' As she hesitated in her answer he said softly, 'I would far rather have your honesty than false reassurances, Miss Chapel. I take it you believe these first hours are *_not*_ the most difficult.'

'You'll probably find that things come in waves, Mr Spock,' she said carefully. 'Sometimes you might feel better than others. But – you're likely to find it harder when you're on your own, and you first start trying to do normal things, before you've learnt adaptive techniques. You'll have good days and bad days.'

'I suppose that you will need to leave me at some point soon,' Spock said, running a finger pensively along the edge of the desk. 'Then I will experience the challenge of managing alone.'

'Well, I can stay and help you for another hour or so, but I promised I'd put in a late shift this evening in sickbay,' she said in a tone of guilt and reluctance. 'Someone needs to watch the Captain's nephew.'

Spock nodded. 'I understand,' he said. 'You have already devoted most of the afternoon to my care, when I imagine you were meant to be off duty.'

'Oh, that doesn't matter,' she smiled. 'And I don't need to go right away – my shift's not 'til ten – but you might like to think about anything else you need my help with, so I can do it before I have to go.'

Spock sat thinking for a moment. 'I would appreciate your help with my clothes,' he said. He got to his feet and made his way carefully across his room to his drawers, running a hand along the room divider to guide himself. He reached his drawers, and opened one near the bottom. 'I have a pair of dark brown pyjamas that I will wear in bed. Can you find them for me?'

'They're right here,' she said, coming up behind him, and picking them out from the other neatly folded clothes in his drawer. 'What about your clothes for the morning?'

'I believe I can identify my uniform shirt and my trousers, but you could make sure that my undershirt and socks are black? You will find socks with my underwear in the top right drawer. Undershirts are in the next one down.'

'Of course,' she said, opening the top drawer and picking out a pair of black socks from the neat rolls. 'And you're sure you can tell with the trousers?'

Spock touched his hands to his hips, feeling the waistband of his trousers, realising how very similar they felt to most of his civilian clothes. 'No, I am not certain,' he said honestly. 'I think there are differences enough – but I am not certain.'

She stopped to consider, reaching out automatically, but then stopping just short of touching him. 'The button – it has the Starfleet insignia on it, doesn't it?' she asked him.

'I believe so,' Spock nodded. He did not often pay attention to the design of his buttons.

'Can you feel it?'

He touched his hand to the button, running the tip of his finger over it carefully. 'I believe I can,' he nodded.

'Well enough to tell it apart from your other clothes?'

'Yes,' he said, touching the button again. 'Yes, I believe that will be enough.'

'Great. You know, with a couple of drawer dividers it'll be simple enough to separate the colours. All you need to do then is remember where things are.'

'That should not be a problem,' Spock nodded. 'I will endeavour to arrange it tomorrow.'

'Although, when you get them back from laundry…' she began, then trailed off. 'I'm sorry. I'm thinking of problems that you just don't need to worry about right now. Of course, you can put Braille tags on your clothes as well, to identify them,' she said, opening the other drawer to pull out an undershirt.

'Braille,' Spock murmured. 'Starfleet standard, I presume?'

'It was when I was at Dekalan. It's not always so easy for adult humans to adjust to, but I think you'll find it a lot easier with your heightened sense of touch. I doubt there's any adaptive equipment for blindness on the ship, but I'm sure we can find a way to teach you the combinations. And the workshops could probably make a simple cane, if you'd like one.'

As Spock hesitated, she said, 'I know there can be stigma attached to adaptive devices like that, but it really will make you much more independent. It won't take you long to refamiliarise yourself with routes on the ship, and a cane would just make sure you could walk at a reasonable pace without bumping into anything.'

Spock nodded. 'If you could arrange that, I would be grateful.'

'I'll leave these clothes here on the top,' Chapel told him, putting the clothes down in a space on top of his chest of drawers.

'Thank you,' Spock nodded, reaching out briefly to feel where she had left them.

He stood silent for a moment beside the nurse in front of his drawers, aware that he was almost touching her. 'Christine,' he said softly, turning towards her and reaching out carefully towards her arm. As he touched her he felt her shiver. 'I must thank you again for your help today,' he said sincerely. 'I do not know how I would have managed without it.'

'Well, I - ' she began uncertainly. 'I couldn't do anything else, could I?'

'You could have been busy,' he said, thinking of the captain and Dr McCoy. 'You could have taken me to a bed in sickbay and gone about your duties for the day – and I would far rather be here than lying unoccupied in sickbay. I have welcomed your company, very much.'

A moment passed as he stood before her, when all he was aware of was her face very close to his, the warmth of her breath and the noise of her heartbeat in her chest. For that moment all he wanted to do was to lean forward and touch his lips to hers in the darkness. He must have moved forward a little, because suddenly her arms were touching his, pulling him close and holding him in a firm embrace. He touched his hands to her back, forgetting discipline to lean his head onto her shoulder and take comfort from her touch.

'Mr Spock, you're vulnerable at the moment,' she began, suddenly pulling away from him as if she had read his thoughts.

'Yes,' Spock acknowledged, keeping hold of her arms. 'But not so vulnerable that I do not know my own mind.'

'I – I have to go,' she said suddenly, her voice shaking. 'I have to wash up before my shift…'

'Your shift is not for another hour,' Spock pointed out. 'Surely you are not that dirty?'

'Well…' she began in confusion.

'You smell of nothing but perfume and clean clothes, clean skin and clean hair,' Spock continued. 'Do not tell me that you look unkempt despite smelling so clean?'

He felt certain that she was smiling, despite the uncertain emotions he could sense from her.

'It is only logical, on examination of the evidence, to believe you look as well presented as you usually do,' he said. 'And I doubt Peter Kirk would protest if you had a hair out of place or had not freshened up your make-up.'

'Please, Mr Spock,' she tried again. 'You know there's nothing more I'd like than to be – close to you. But you've been through a lot today. It doesn't seem the right time to make decisions like this.'

Spock sighed, nodding sombrely. He was correct that he knew his own mind, but he knew that she was correct too. He *_was*_ feeling intensely vulnerable. Part of him wanted nothing more than to curl up close to someone and lie very still with them, while the shock of all that had happened to him washed over and through him.

'Acknowledged,' he said softly. 'You should go, Christine.'

'You must want to meditate, as well,' she pointed out.

'True,' Spock nodded again. He had not managed to meditate successfully for almost a week. He had not even managed to sleep. The need to process his failing emotions was becoming desperate. He could not stare into his meditation flame – but perhaps having to imagine it would help strengthen his focus. 'I will speak to you tomorrow, in sickbay. Perhaps you will have time to help me with the adaptations you have spoken of.'

'Of course I will,' she nodded. 'And, if you'd still like me to, I could come see you in the evening, after my afternoon shift, and we can talk about this.'

******

Once Spock was alone in his quarters, he sat in his desk chair in the darkness pondering on everything that had happened to him. Chapel had made sure he had access to everything he needed, and taken him through as many processes as she could to help him familiarise himself with functioning in the darkness. It had all seemed fairly straightforward – but once he was left alone, he realised just how little there was left to him to do. He could not read or work, and he did not have the confidence, or the energy, to venture out to a recreation room for company. He considered listening to music, but since the interface with his computer was visual not oral he could not access what he wanted.

He exhaled in one long, calming breath, and stood up. The one thing that he could do, indeed the one thing that he *_should*_ do, was to meditate. Even without being able to focus on his meditation statue, he would be able to reach a certain depth. He moved around his bed and sat down in his familiar spot facing his statue. Even though he could not see it, he could still smell the subtle scents of the incense in the fire pot, and they helped to ground him. He adjusted his position until he was comfortable, and steepled his fingers before him. The slight pressure between the tips of his extended fingers would do as a focus in lieu of being able to see the shape of his hands and the light beyond.

He became aware of the sensation of his blood pulsing in his fingertips – a deep, strong, rhythmical throbbing that made him calmly conscious of his life processes. He felt the pressure of each of his fingers resting against the others, and let himself become conscious of the entirety of his physical body before pushing away physical sensation.

He sank into the first level of meditation. He allowed images to crowd into his mind – Sam Kirk lying stiff and some-time-dead on the floor, his face so like Jim's. The look of anguish in Jim's eyes, but his emotions held in with control approaching Spock's own. Dead bodies in the streets, ransacked buildings, chaos, violence, pain. Aurelan Kirk's screams, his own screams, the pain clawing and burning along every nerve until it extended from the centre of his back to the very tips of his fingers and toes…

*_Focus._*

He allowed himself to experience the pain again, felt it for just a second pulsing through every nerve – then he began to push it away, rationalising it, partitioning the pain he had felt away from this painless present. He allowed himself to remember Jim's anguish, and acknowledge what he could and could not do to help him. He allowed his mind to move over all those images of chaos on the planet's surface, and think of what, in his role as first officer, he could and could not do to –

*_I am blind.*_

The fact sank like a stone into a pool, stirring up the sediment in what had previously been clear water. There was very little he could do in his role as first officer now he was blind.

Perhaps it was time to move on and analyse his blindness. That, after all, was the overriding trouble in his mind at this point in time. So –

He could not seem to get beyond the reiteration of the fact, _*I am blind*_.

It could not be changed. It was time to accept, and move on.

_*But…_*

How did he accept the intolerable?

He shifted his position a little, becoming more aware of his body and surroundings. He tried to sink himself back into a state of pure thought, allowing himself to see the dark haze in front of his eyes and trying to accept it as a simple fact of his existence.

*_But…_*

He drew in a deep breath, aware of the air moving in through his nostrils and down into his lungs. He felt the pressure again between the tips of his fingers. He suddenly saw a remembered image of his fingers in that position, with their efficiently manicured nails and the whorls of his fingerprints meeting each other where his fingertips touched. He would not see that again, or see any person's fingertips.

*_This – is not fair.*_

*_That is irrational,*_ he told himself firmly._ *Fairness is irrelevant. The process of life does not take account of the merits and faults of the person involved. The fact that this was not how I had expected my life to proceed is irrelevant.*_

*_But – it is not fair…*_

He sighed, and let himself drift back to a full awareness. He was never going to reach the state of emptiness of thought if he could not even work through the problems assailing him. He was tired – too tired to meditate, almost too tired to sleep. He barely felt competent to be out of bed, but he could not stand to lie there in darkness with his mind racing. Certainly he was too tired to sit here alone and try to keep himself from morose contemplation of this clinging, shackling, life-changing disability.

Finally he made up his mind. He got to his feet and carefully made his way across his rooms to the door. The darkness shifted to a vague slightly lighter colour as the door opened, but he could still see nothing. He kept one hand on the wall as he left and turned right, feeling the short distance down the corridor to Kirk's door. After a few moments he found the buzzer and pressed it. After a short hesitation he heard the word, 'Come,' from inside, and the door slid open.

There was a long silence, then Kirk said hesitantly, 'Spock… Er… Are you all right?'

'I am quite fine – physically,' Spock nodded, standing in the doorway with one hand on the frame. 'I hope it is not too late?'

'No, Spock, I'm still up. I would have come to see you, but I've been so damned busy…'

'Is that why you attempted to conceal your presence in the corridor earlier?' Spock asked, very well aware that that wasn't the reason.

He felt the jolt of guilty surprise as Kirk stammered, 'I – er – Spock, how did you know I was there?'

He allowed himself just the hint of a smile. 'Jim, I have served with you and been your friend for many years now. I can recognise your presence by more than just sight.'

'I'm sorry, Spock,' Kirk said finally. 'I just – didn't know what to say to you. I still don't…'

Spock stepped forward hesitantly, holding one hand slightly ahead of himself. 'Jim, you seem to be labouring under a misapprehension that you are somehow responsible for my condition. You are not.'

After a long moment of silence Jim said flatly, 'I told you not to wear the goggles.'

Spock stopped. He couldn't be sure enough of his surroundings to continue moving without embarrassment to himself or Jim. The last thing he wanted was to break something in his Captain's quarters.

'No, Jim,' he said. 'You merely agreed with my decision. You would never have ordered me not to wear them – neither would McCoy. Any haste in going forward with the experiment was also my fault. I proffered myself without waiting for the results because I was driven by my faltering control to do so.'

'We should have recognised you weren't thinking clearly, Spock,' Kirk said miserably, coming across the room towards him as he realised his difficulty. 'You weren't qualified to make rational choices. You were in too much pain.'

'Again, illogical,' Spock countered. 'It was still my decision to make. If I had not stepped into the chamber then, the creature may have regained control of me. It was aware of our plans.'

'I think *_your*_ logic's faltering a little, my friend,' Kirk said softly, finally touching Spock's arm with one hand. Spock resisted reaching out to touch Jim himself, but he had to admit a degree of warm comfort rising at Kirk's physical reassurance in the darkness that surrounded him.

'You say it was your fault,' Kirk continued, 'but that you *_had_* to do it to stop the alien gaining control of you.'

'Perhaps,' Spock nodded. 'I must admit logic has not been the overriding concern in my mind today.'

'How are you managing?' Kirk asked, finally allowing himself to bring up what had the potential to be an emotional maelstrom. 'Are you all right?'

Spock hesitated, prevaricating between reassurance and truth. 'No,' he said finally. 'I am not all right in the slightest.'

Kirk sighed, closing his hand around Spock's arm. 'Come and sit down,' he said softly, leading him through the room to a chair. 'Just here, to your right,' he said, guiding Spock's hand as he reached out. The degree of gentle care in his voice was almost startling to the Vulcan. The only times Jim's voice sounded like that to him was when he was ill, or gravely injured. Now, he was neither.

'God, Spock, I'm so sorry,' Kirk said as he sat himself. 'I'm just so sorry.'

Spock clenched his hands hard in his lap. 'Regret is useless. But - ' He hesitated for a long moment, then his voice seemed to break a little. 'I don't know what to do, Jim. I don't know how to move forward from this point.'

'Spock, it's only been half a day,' Kirk said softly.

'I am very aware of the length of time,' Spock nodded. He made an effort to stop fiddling with his hands, laying them flat on the desk before him. As he did he felt a datapadd, and a sheaf of old fashioned paper on the desk. 'Jim, you are working,' he said. 'You should have let me know.'

He heard Kirk stretch in his chair. He could feel Jim's relief at the change of subject, and resolved not to burden him further with his emotional difficulties when he had so many troubles of his own to worry about.

'Oh, I've been trying to work out the ratios for those satellites all day, Spock,' Kirk said tiredly. 'Bones gave me the precise frequencies of light, but we need to replicate that with chemicals, and I can't seem to get it right. The carrier satellites won't be finished in construction until midday tomorrow, but we have to have something to put in them.'

'What are the frequencies?' Spock asked, leaning forward.

'Um…' Kirk leafed through the papers, then stopped and read out a list of wavelengths.

'And the chemicals you propose to use?'

'Sixty-four percent trimagnicite, fifteen percent trevium – the rest – I just don't know. I need to filter out the majority of the white light, but whatever I find to use, it cancels out the effects of something else.'

'Jim, you simply need to remove the trevium from the compound,' Spock said softly.

There was a moment of silence, then Kirk said, 'But the whole thing revolves around burning trimagnicite and trevium. It's what you suggested, Spock.'

'It is what I suggested to produce a bright, white light. But we do not need a full spectrum light – just ultraviolet. You are trying to introduce extra chemicals to dim the white light produced by the trevium, when you may simply delete the trevium. Trimagnicite burns at a temperature that produces very little white light. Simply use eighty percent trimagnicite, and add in twelve percent luvacite and eight percent marxite to cut out the remaining unnecessary frequencies. Use pure oxygen as a catalyst. I would suggest submitting the Denevan population to medical checks afterwards, but there should be very few repercussions.'

'I didn't even see it, Spock,' Kirk said tiredly. 'I guess I should have just spoken to you five hours ago.'

'Perhaps,' Spock nodded gravely.

'God, here I am making you work when you're sitting there in the dark because of me,' Kirk said softly.

'Jim, we have established this is no more your fault than mine,' Spock said, gesturing towards his eyes. 'Besides, I find the work a relief, and I am not totally in the dark.'

'You're not?' Kirk asked him in surprise, leaning closer.

'Technically, at the moment I am. I am guessing you have your lights on a low setting. But in a normally lit room I can perceive a little of that light.'

'You can see something?'

Spock shook his head. 'I have a very limited ability to sense light. I cannot make anything out, I cannot perceive changes in colour, I can only very imprecisely tell the direction of light. I seem to be viewing the world through closed eyelids,' he said, choosing not to say that it was possible that that was precisely what he *_was*_ doing.

'God, that must be frustrating,' Kirk murmured.

Spock raised an eyebrow, choosing not to give a verbal reply to that statement.

'Jim, I would like to continue to be involved in this crisis, if I may,' he said. 'I may only be able to help in an advisory role, but it would help *_me*_ vastly if I were able to attend briefings and assist in the planning of the aid efforts.'

'Of course, Spock, if you want to,' Kirk nodded. 'You've just proved how much I need your input.'

'I understand that I will be put on medical leave, and that if my blindness does not resolve itself I will most likely be forced to retire.'

There was a long pause, then Kirk said tiredly, 'God, Spock, I don't want you to leave the ship. You've been invaluable since the first day I met you. I don't know how I'd manage without you.'

'I cannot function as first officer in this condition, Jim, as much as I would like to,' Spock said softly.

'You must be able to do *_something*_ to warrant your staying,' Kirk insisted. 'It's not as if every role on this ship calls for twenty-twenty vision.'

'Jim,' Spock said, putting his hand out towards his captain. 'May I suggest we don't dwell on this subject tonight. I – am not sure that I am in the best condition to dispassionately consider my future. As you have said, it has only been half a day, and I imagine we will not be leaving Deneva for some weeks to come.'

'Yes, that's true,' Kirk mused. He realised that the subtext of that statement was that Spock was scared, and didn't want to imagine what his life may be like from now on. But at that moment the door chime buzzed, saving him from an awkward silence, and he glanced at Spock, calling, 'Come.'

McCoy pushed impatiently through the door, his eyes immediately falling on Spock. 'So here you are,' he said testily.

Spock waited a beat, then said without turning his head, 'If you mean me, Doctor, you will have to use my name.'

'Of course I mean you,' he said, striding across the room. 'I've been standing outside your room for the last ten minutes, buzzing to come in.'

'I was not there,' Spock replied calmly, very well aware that the reply would antagonise the doctor.

'I *_know* _that, Spock.'

'What did you want, Bones?' Kirk asked, trying to defuse the tension.

'I *_wanted*_ to speak to that irresponsible goddamn self-sacrificing Vulcan. Well, Spock?' McCoy said tightly. Spock was sure that if his eyes were functioning he would see him with arms folded, bouncing on his toes with poorly repressed frustration.

'You will have to elaborate, Doctor,' Spock said calmly.

'Christine showed me the scans. Why in God's name didn't you let her tell me earlier?'

'Tell you what, Bones?' Kirk asked curiously.

'I did not wish to interrupt your research or your relief efforts,' Spock said calmly. 'That was the priority.'

'Tell you what?' Kirk repeated. 'Spock?'

'Only that Christine Chapel discovered exactly why Spock is blind, and he saw fit to order her not to tell me,' McCoy said in an aggrieved tone.

'An order which she obviously broke,' Spock said tightly.

'You're damn right she broke it, but the poor girl by all accounts spent hours torturing herself over medical ethics and patient confidentiality.'

'A subject with which you obviously have no problem, Doctor,' Spock said acerbically.

'For God's sake, Bones, what did she tell you!' Kirk insisted.

'Jim, this man has two pairs of eyelids, inner and outer, and the inner ones are sealed closed.'

'And have you come here to tell me that you can unseal them?' Spock challenged him with an expressionless face.

There was a long silence, then McCoy said, 'No, I haven't, Spock.'

'Have you come to tell me that you could have unsealed them had you known earlier?'

'No,' McCoy admitted reluctantly. 'I don't believe I could have done anything no matter when I'd found out. It's possible Vulcan healers can help you, but I haven't found any hard evidence they've ever done something like this before. The reaction may be something to do with your hybrid physiology.'

'We cannot leave Deneva at the present time, anyway,' Spock said flatly. 'So, in summary, Nurse Chapel breaking my order to speak to you was of no benefit to me whatsoever.'

'You didn't know that, Spock,' McCoy said tersely. 'You know you didn't. She was right to tell me when she did.'

Spock inclined his head slowly in silent acknowledgement.

'And you won't hold it against her?'

'Miss Chapel's help has been invaluable to me today,' Spock said finally. 'I would be a fool to alienate her at this time.'

'Well…' McCoy said, his anger suddenly deflated. 'You should be in bed, Spock. You should be in bed in sickbay, but we'll let that pass. You need rest after everything you've been through.'

'I intend to retire to bed very soon,' Spock nodded. In truth, he was exhausted. He had not been able to relax his control enough to sleep since his infection, and he was certain that if he had relaxed his control the pain would have kept him awake.

'Will you need any help?'

'Miss Chapel helped me pick out my night-clothes earlier. I was hoping to appeal to the captain for any further help that I need,' Spock said quietly. Part of him detested the very idea of needing help for something as simple as his bedtime routine, but without sight he wasn't sure how to identify his toiletries in the bathroom, or to safely prepare the cup of black tea he often had before retiring, especially in view of how tired he was.

'I'll help you, Spock,' Kirk nodded. 'Just let me know when you're ready and I'll come through with you.'

'Thank you, Jim. Since it is nearly midnight, I believe I am ready now. Goodnight, Doctor,' he said pointedly.

'Night, Spock,' McCoy said more gently. 'Sleep well. But I'll want to see you in sickbay in the morning, to check your eyes.'

'If you believe I need more medical attention,' Spock nodded. 'Although I would imagine you are quite busy enough already.'

'Just be there, Spock,' McCoy said tetchily, moving to the door. 'Night, Jim.'

******

Spock woke panting, his blood pulsing in his head. The shreds of a nightmare clung to his mind, but the harder he tried to pin down exactly what had happened in it the more it eluded him. All he had left was a shivering sense of panic pinning him to the bed. Instinctively he ordered, 'Lights.' He remembered what had happened only as the darkness lightened to a still-dark blur. He took in a deep breath, then said calmly, 'Computer, lights off.'

He smoothed his hands over the bedclothes, feeling the reality of his surroundings. He still felt overwhelmed with exhaustion, his head muddled with it, and the resulting lack of coordination only added to his difficulties. He stood and cautiously made his way to the bathroom, first using the toilet, then moving over to the basin and scooping cold water over his face. He could still remember only fragments of his dream – distorted recreations of the last few days – but his inability to remember was disturbing in itself. He was used to lucid dreams, that he could often control, and always remember perfectly. These types of nightmares only ever appeared at times of extreme stress.

As he straightened, he heard the door into Kirk's cabin slide open.

'Spock?' Kirk asked sleepily.

'Yes, Captain,' he replied, trying to keep his voice level and composed.

'I thought – ' He hesitated, then said, 'I don't know – I woke up, and I had a feeling you were – upset – or something. It doesn't matter – I didn't mean to walk in on you in the bathroom.'

Spock heard him turn back to his door. He could let Jim go back to sleep – he probably needed it. He shouldn't load his own problems onto him. But he found himself saying, 'I experienced what you would call a nightmare.'

Kirk turned back to him, reaching out to touch his arm warmly. 'I can't say I'm surprised,' he told him. 'But I'm sorry.' He sat down tiredly on the edge of the bath, then looked up at the Vulcan. 'Why don't you sit down, Spock? Talk to me about it.'

'Sit down?' Spock asked. 'Where?'

'Haven't you ever had a heart to heart in the bathroom, Spock?' Kirk asked him. 'The toilet makes the best seat.'

Spock raised an eyebrow minutely, then nodded, and moved over to sit on the closed toilet lid, clenching his hands together to stop them from trembling from tiredness.

'Want to tell me what it was about?' Kirk asked.

Spock thought for a moment, and could barely repress an ironic smile when he realised the thrust of his dream – the thrust of the past week in reality.

'I believe in essence it was about loss of control, Captain.'

'Well, you've certainly had plenty of experience of that lately,' Kirk said ruefully.

'I am – ashamed – of how I have acted over the past week, Jim,' he admitted. 'My inability to control did no credit to my species.'

'Spock – ' Kirk sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. 'Spock, you were in agony. It was a pain that killed my brother, and his wife. And you managed to control it. Yes, you lost control at first – but you overcame it. You carried on functioning right until the moment the creature died.'

Spock hung his head, absently twisting and untwisting his fingers in his lap. 'I entered the test cubicle before we had full results. That lapse in control resulted in the loss of the ship's first officer.'

'You're not dead, Spock.'

'No – but I can no longer function in my job. I have not had to rely so much on others since my infancy.'

'But then you grew up,' Kirk pointed out. 'That's what you have to do with this – learn, adapt – grow to live with it.'

Spock exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. He understood the logic of Kirk's statement – but he did not *_want*_ to grow to live with his blindness. He simply wanted it to end.

'Come on, my friend – I can see you're exhausted,' Kirk said softly.

Spock straightened up, realising that Jim was standing before him, touching his arm. He got to his feet without protest, and followed Kirk, stumbling a little as his foot dragged over the sill of the smooth bathroom floor to the carpet of his quarters.

'I *_am*_ tired,' he acknowledged, pausing for a moment to steady himself. 'Do you know what time it is, Jim?'

'Uh – a little after three,' Kirk told him. 'It's not often you need to ask *_me*_ the time, Spock.'

'I find it harder to judge the time accurately when I am tired,' Spock admitted. 'I have been relying on the ship's clocks the past few days – and now, of course, I cannot check the time with a glance.'

'Of course,' Kirk murmured. 'It's 3:07, by the way, if you want me to be precise. Here – get into bed,' he said firmly, as Spock felt the edge of the mattress against his knee. 'Want me to stay a while?' he offered, as Spock settled himself under the bedclothes.

Spock hesitated, reluctant to take up even more of his captain's time for personal problems in the middle of the night.

'I'll stay,' Kirk said firmly, seating himself in the antique wooden chair by Spock's bed. 'No, don't worry about me – I wasn't sleeping so well anyway. I guess we've both got a lot on our minds.'

'That much is true,' Spock nodded, suddenly ashamed. Kirk had the welfare of a planet's population on his mind – Spock's own small drama was trivial compared to that. 'Perhaps you should tell me about your problems, Captain.'

'Hell, Spock, I'm not the one who's blind,' Kirk protested. 'We deal with things like Deneva every few months on this ship. You know that. But losing your sight…'

'I know, Jim,' Spock acknowledged. 'That is why I desire to talk about something else. I – find myself wishing to think about something other than blindness. And this is not a usual drama. You have also lost something – some*_one*_ – very important to you.'

'Sam,' Kirk murmured, almost inaudibly. He cleared his throat. 'How about we talk about something totally unrelated to any of this, Spock? Have – er – have you been following the Alpha Quadrant baseball league?'

Spock raised an eyebrow, then shrugged his shoulders very slightly. 'I have never followed baseball, Captain. Perhaps you could explain the sport to me?'


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Spock woke instantly at the sound of someone in his rooms. He felt a brief second of confusion as he opened his eyes to a dark blur, but the memory of what had happened came more quickly to him this time, and he pushed aside the instinctive moment of depression in order to be able to focus on the noises coming from his living area. His internal sense of time told him it was not long after eight – later than he had meant to sleep. But why would someone come into his rooms without asking permission? Perhaps they had buzzed and he had not been woken by the sound. He *_had* _been sleeping very deeply, making up for the last week.

He lay still for a moment, trying to analyse the noises, then sat up and swung his legs out of bed.

'Who is that?' he asked. 'Captain?'

'Yeoman Rand, sir,' a cheerful voice replied.

She came through into his sleeping area, and Spock stiffened. Having the captain's female yeoman seeing him in his nightclothes and in his current condition made him highly uncomfortable.

'Captain assigned me to your quarters this morning,' she continued, oblivious to his discomfort.

'I do not need a yeoman,' Spock said firmly. 'I have never needed a yeoman.'

'The captain told me about your accident, sir,' she said in a softer voice. 'He thought you might need some help, but he had an early shift to get to.'

'The captain was mistaken,' Spock replied, standing up and reaching out to the ledge by his bedhead. It was disconcerting enough waking to this blurred darkness. All he really wanted was a few moments to lie in stillness and try to reconcile himself to this strange new world. 'Please, leave.'

'All right, sir,' she said, not sounding put out in the slightest. 'There's museli and orange juice waiting for you on your desk – chef said it was your favourite. I'll be next door seeing to the captain's room for the next half hour or so, so if you need me, just call through.'

'Thank you, yeoman,' Spock nodded, relieved that she was leaving without argument. He stood still, listening until she had left, then moved round to his desk to feel for the meal she had placed there. He touched the rim of the bowl as he sat down, secretly grateful that this was one part of his morning routine that he did not have to worry about.

The rest of his routine was surprisingly easy. Jim had put aside his shower gel last night so he could identify it – the same was true of his shaving equipment. He was familiar enough with the shower controls to not need to see them, and he managed to shave safely simply by taking extra care, and feeling across his face with his fingertips to tell if he had missed any areas. He came back into his rooms towelling himself dry and gathered up the clothes that Chapel had put out for him last night. As he dressed he experienced a growing feeling of uncertainty, however. He was sure he had identified his uniform top and trousers correctly, that he had picked up the right pair of boots and had not put anything on inside-out or back to front. Still, he kept slipping his fingers up to the badge on the shirt to check it was there, and feeling the seams on his undershirt to be sure it was not inside-out. Finally he acknowledged that he would not be able to put the uncertainty to rest without checking, and went through the bathroom into the captain's quarters.

'Miss Rand?' he asked, tilting his ear towards the room before him. 'Are you still there?'

'Yes, sir,' she answered immediately. 'Just tidying the captain's drawers.'

'Indeed,' Spock nodded dryly. Knowing Kirk as he did, it would not surprise him if Rand was more intimate with his drawers than necessary for a yeoman. 'Yeoman, can you tell me if I am attired correctly?'

'Perfectly, sir,' she said, coming over and brushing something off his shoulder with a level of familiarity he found disconcerting.

'Thank you, yeoman,' he nodded, stepping backwards.

'Did you need help with anything else, sir?'

'That is all,' Spock told her. 'Thank you.'

'Well, I'm all done here, so if you're sure – '

'I am sure,' Spock nodded, turning back to the bathroom door.

'I'll pop through and clear up your breakfast things, then I'll be gone,' she said, following him through into his rooms.

He could only be grateful that she didn't try to guide him as he walked carefully back through the bathroom. Spock waited until she had left, then reseated himself at his desk, pondering on what to do next. He had promised McCoy that he would come to sickbay, but he was as reluctant to call for help to get there as he was to be seen feeling his way through the corridors on his own. Finally he settled his resolve, recalling Chapel's words of the night before - *_the only real way to adapt is to just keep trying new things*_. He would need to navigate alone sooner or later, and it may as well be sooner.

******

Spock kept his hand on the wall as he walked up the corridor from the turbolift on Deck 7, feeling door after door in the wall and trying to hurry past them before they sensed his presence and opened. He was relying on assumed norms to ignore the fear of walking into a space that was totally invisible to him, guessing that there would be no obstacles left out on the floor in the usually ordered corridors of the _Enterprise_.

He felt the corner where the corridor met the first intersection, and turned left into the space. Abruptly he bumped into someone standing still, and recoiled swiftly, annoyed at his own clumsiness.

'Mr Spock!' the man said in surprise.

'Lieutenant Sulu,' Spock realised as he stepped back, relieved that at least it was someone familiar. 'I apologise.'

He felt for the corridor wall to his left, but there was no wall within his reach. He stopped, confused, trying to work out where he was. He could hear others in front of him, murmuring softly – exchanging comments about him that they believed he could not hear. They could simply have been people in the corridor, but it sounded as if they were sitting down. A feeling of awkwardness hung thick in the air. It was obvious that Sulu had no idea how to interact with him after this sudden change in his circumstances.

'Mr Sulu, would you tell me where I am?' Spock asked quietly, his confidence suddenly shaken. 'I thought I had turned into the cross corridor to sickbay.'

'This is the briefing room just before that turning, sir,' he replied, sounding somewhat embarrassed. 'We were holding a weapons briefing.'

'And the door was open?'

'Yes, sir. We'd – er – just finished and I was standing within range of the sensor, about to leave, then I got talking.'

Spock paused, trying to work out just which way he was facing, but he wasn't sure since he had bumped into Sulu. 'I – seem to have lost my bearings, Lieutenant,' he said quietly. 'Could you direct me back to the corridor?'

'Of course, sir. I can take you right down to sickbay if you want?'

Spock considered. He knew he needed to reach the end of the cross corridor and turn left, but he was not entirely sure how easily he would find the right door, or whether he would be able to make his way to McCoy's office through a sickbay that was bound to be busy.

'That would be acceptable, thank you, Lieutenant,' Spock nodded, reaching out to take his arm as Chapel had taught him. He followed Sulu down the corridor, registering nervousness through the contact. No one had seemed to know what to say or how to deal with him since he had stepped out of the test cubicle.

'I'm sorry – about your sight, sir,' Sulu said finally. 'Does the doctor think it's permanent?'

'We do not know,' Spock said honestly.

'Well – we're all thinking of you, Mr Spock.'

'Not to the exclusion of your duties, I hope,' Spock replied automatically. It was striking how quickly he had been separated from the active crew of the ship – everything was in terms of _we _and _you_ now. 'I assume Chekov is covering my post on the bridge?' he asked.

'Yes, sir. It's giving him a good workout, I can tell you,' Sulu replied.

Spock turned his head towards the helmsman. He had the sense that he was smiling at Chekov's difficulty, with that odd pleasure that humans seemed to get in seeing their friends in trouble.

'He is managing adequately?'

'Oh yes – I just don't think he's used to the workload you have to deal with, Mr Spock. Well – here we are at sickbay,' he said, as doors swished open before them. 'Where did you want to go, sir?'

'Here will be fine. Thank you, Lieutenant,' Spock said, letting go of his arm with a degree of relief. He stepped forward into sickbay without further comment, and stood with his ear cocked into the room, listening out to hear if there was anyone in the ward or the anteroom he was in. He realised he could hear and sense more than one person a distance away – casualties from the planet and attending medical personnel in the ward, presumably. The anteroom seemed to be empty, however. He stepped forward slowly, holding a hand out before himself, very aware that his memory of room layouts did not always tally with what was around him in fact.

'Mr Spock!' a voice said quickly, and he relaxed as he recognised Nurse Chapel coming into the room. 'Did you get here alone?'

Spock found himself curiously reluctant to crush the happy surprise he had heard in her voice, but he said honestly, 'I got to this deck without incident, but I found I required guidance a short distance after leaving the turbolift.'

'Well, that's better than guidance all the way,' she said happily. She moved to the other side of the room and picked something up, then came to his side. 'Perhaps this will help, Mr Spock,' she said, taking his hand and putting it to a long, slim stick.

'A cane?' Spock asked, one eyebrow tilted upwards. He ran his fingers over the end he held, feeling a wrist loop attached to the top.

'The workshops made it up overnight. I expected them to just make a simple stick, but I gave them some schematics out of the sickbay database, and they've reproduced them exactly. Do you feel the button on the handle?'

Spock turned the cane in his hands, tracing sensitive fingers over it again. 'Ah, yes,' he nodded, touching a small, rounded button with his fingertip.

'Try depressing it.'

Spock pushed it in, and felt a vibration set up in the handle as the length of the cane began to retract. 'It is telescopic,' he said, feeling along the retracted baton. It was now only about eight inches long.

'Yes, and if you press it again it extends. It's much more compact than a folding cane. And it'll hold to your belt just like your phaser and communicator.'

'Traditionally such devices are white, are they not?' Spock asked, letting the device extend again.

'Yes – but they made this one black,' she said in a tone of amusement. 'Lieutenant Barlie thought it suited you better. Do you want to try walking with it?'

'Is there a technique for using it?' he asked, trying to suppress his unease at such an obvious sign of his disability. He had to acknowledge the benefits of such an aid without emotion clouding his judgement.

'You should have proper training, but for now just sweep it back and forth in front of yourself as you walk, keeping the tip on the floor. The tip has a rollerball in it so it slides without wearing. You'll be able to tell what the ground surface is like from the vibrations in the handle, and any obstacles in the way your cane should touch before you do.'

'I see,' Spock nodded, lowering the end of the cane to the ground. He moved it across the floor experimentally, feeling the sensation as it rolled across the carpet. Then he tried walking, deliberately aiming himself towards where he expected the examination table to be. Just as Chapel had told him, the cane tapped into the table before he reached it, allowing him to adjust his course. He had not expected it to make so much of a difference, but just the confidence it gave him that he was not about to run into something or stumble over something felt like an enormous freedom. He turned back to the nurse, making his way back towards her.

'This will be a great help, Christine,' he said quietly. 'Thank you.'

She didn't reply, and Spock reached out tentatively with his mind, trying to sense what her expression might be.

'You are smiling?' he asked as he reached her.

'Yes – I'm sorry, Mr Spock. I forget you can't see my expression.'

'I cannot see it, but I can sense it,' he said. He reached out briefly towards her face, tracing a finger across her cheek, then quickly dropped his hand back to his side, rubbing his thumb over the wetness he found on his finger.

'You are smiling, but you are also crying?' he asked in puzzlement.

'Oh, I just – ' she began. 'I – '

'You are pleased that the cane is helping me, but you are upset that I need it?' Spock asked intuitively. 'But – you do not wish to tell me that you pity me.'

'I – don't really like that word,' she said, wiping a hand across her eyes. 'But – I suppose I feel pain for what you've lost.'

'Christine,' Spock said softly. 'I have no doubt that if I were human I would have shed tears for what I have lost. I – am not finding this easy. But all I can do is try to adapt. It will not help me to sit down and cry.'

'No, I know, Mr Spock,' she nodded.

'But I do not condemn you for your tears,' he said, reaching out a hand to touch her arm. 'I admit it is – comforting – to have someone care sufficiently to weep for my blindness.'

'Spock.'

Spock turned at McCoy's gruff voice in the doorway, dropping his hand instantly from Chapel's arm and clasping it with the other over the handle of the cane. 'Dr McCoy,' he said, making his way towards him.

'I'm – er – ready for you in the other examination room,' McCoy said as he reached him, touching his arm to guide him.

'Of course,' Spock nodded.

McCoy was silent until the door of the examination room closed behind them, then he said awkwardly, 'Spock, you do know what you're doing, don't you?'

'I believed that all I needed to do was sit still while you examined me,' Spock said transparently.

'You know what I'm talking about. I saw her face in there.'

'Then you have me at a disadvantage, Doctor,' Spock replied flatly.

'I saw your face too,' McCoy continued.

'I am gratified that you have such perfect vision,' Spock said dryly. 'What is your point, Doctor?'

'Just – be careful, Spock. You're – '

'Vulnerable at the moment,' Spock finished for him. 'Yes, I am well aware of my physical and emotional condition. Is it beyond you to conceive that I may not wish to be utterly alone at this time?'

'Spock, you've got me, and Jim.'

'Ah yes,' Spock nodded. 'That is why I did not see either of you until past eleven yesterday evening.'

'Spock, I'm sorry about that,' McCoy said guiltily. 'But we were both very busy.'

'Yes, I understand,' Spock nodded. 'But I am not a monk, Doctor,' he said flatly, finding his way alone to the chair he had been examined in before. 'And I will not shun contact with the opposite sex purely because you believe that Vulcans are incapable of such interactions, or because you believe I am incapable of correctly interpreting my own emotions at this time. I believed I was here to have my eyes examined, not to be psychoanalysed. Perhaps you could begin?'

He sat motionless as McCoy brought the scanner over and checked his eyes, comparing the results with the ones recorded by Chapel the previous day.

'Well, Doctor?' Spock asked as McCoy moved to put his instruments away.

'There's no change on yesterday, Spock,' the doctor told him heavily. 'Your eyes are detecting only one point seven two percent of the light I'm shining into them – which is exactly the same amount that was reaching your retinas yesterday.'

'And the possibility of retracting the inner eyelids?'

McCoy sighed, pulling up a chair to sit opposite Spock. 'As far as I can tell, what happened is that they closed over your eyes when the light reached a certain intensity. But the light got to a point that was far, far brighter than anything that they were meant to deal with. It might be that, it might be compounded by your human heritage, but they're not just stuck shut. In essence, they've been fused into your eye tissue, Spock, and I cannot see a way of removing them that wouldn't irreversibly damage your eyes. Now, it's theoretically possible – and let me stress _theoretically_ – that your body might absorb the tissue back into itself, just like a wound healing – but the trouble is that it's not a wound. Your cells aren't sensing that there's anything wrong, so there's no reason for them to attack the eyelid tissue. And if it _did_ attack the tissue, it's just as possible that you'd be left with scarring that would seriously impair your sight.'

'I see,' Spock nodded, getting abruptly to his feet and making for the door. 'In that case, there is little point in my being here, Doctor. I should return to my quarters.'

'Spock, I'm _sorry_,' McCoy pressed. 'I'd hoped there might be some change today.'

'Your human emotion of regret is essentially useless,' Spock said flatly. 'If you can do nothing, there is no point in apologies. Thank you, Doctor,' he dismissed him with a curt nod, turning back to the door.

'If you can wait ten minutes I can take you to your rooms, Spock,' McCoy offered, biting down the sharp retort he badly wanted to make to Spock's too-logical response.

'I do not need to be _taken_, Doctor,' Spock said stiffly. 'I am fully confident that I am capable of navigating through the ship that I have served on for the past eleven years.'

McCoy sighed. 'You go on then, Spock. Come see me again tomorrow for another check. And just – take care.'

Spock nodded briefly without turning back, pressed the button to extend his new cane, and moved to the corridor door with a swiftness and accuracy that surprised even himself.

******

He had only been back in his quarters for a few minutes when the door chime sounded. Spock pursed his lips in brief frustration. He had been sitting still in his desk chair, trying to find a way to come to terms with McCoy's diagnosis – but he could not find a way. He did not want company. He wanted to be left alone to think.

The chime sounded again. He sighed, rising from his chair and turning towards the door.

'Come,' he said flatly.

'Mr Spock,' Chapel's voice said as the door opened. 'I just wanted to check – I mean, you walked out of sickbay so fast…'

Spock turned back towards his desk, reaching out to the computer screen with one hand. 'Yes, I had an appointment to – ' He trailed off, realising that there was little point in pretending. 'I'm sorry, Christine,' he said, turning back towards her. 'I did not have an appointment. I – suppose I had been fostering an illogical hope that McCoy would examine my eyes and tell me that my sight was recoverable.'

'And he didn't,' Chapel murmured.

'No,' Spock said simply.

'And – if you were human you'd shed tears for what you've lost,' Chapel said softly, coming across the room to him and putting a hand out to his arm.

'Yes,' Spock said, allowing himself to lean into the hug that she offered him. He stood silently with the side of his head pressed against hers, staring into the darkness. 'I – am half human,' he said finally, his voice shaking just a little.

'It'll be all right,' she whispered, stroking a firm hand down his back.

'When?' Spock asked tonelessly. 'If it is so difficult to come to terms with less than twenty-four hours of blindness, how long will it take to adjust to a lifetime?'

'I don't know. But it will be all right.'

Spock stood silently, pulling hard on his discipline to steady his faltering control. He could not let himself collapse into emotionalism. He must not let himself cry. He *_had*_ to keep going, and wait for time to bring the acceptance that discipline would not. He finally pulled away from her, lifting a hand to his face.

'Shh – let me do it for once,' she smiled gently, lifting her hand to his cheek to brush away the slight wetness there. Spock closed his eyes at her touch. It would be so easy just to fall back into her arms and stay there.

'Do you know, I have completely lost track of what is happening regarding Deneva?' he said finally, moving away from her and going back to his desk. The only way to escape from the trap of his emotions was to focus on something else. 'I cannot read the morning briefing on my computer, and – I find myself reluctant to call someone to read it out to me.'

'You don't have speech access?' she asked in surprise.

'No,' Spock shook his head. 'I have always found visual interaction and keyboard interface far more efficient. I removed the vocal capabilities to increase the computer's speed – but now I cannot restore them because I cannot see. Ironic for someone who has the highest computer qualification on the ship…'

'Well, I know we're preparing sickbay for more casualties,' Chapel told him, coming to his side. 'So I guess they'll be deploying the satellites soon. Do you want me to read the briefing to you, Mr Spock?'

'You could look at it and relay the pertinent points,' he nodded, flicking the screen on and switching on the keyboard projector. 'Although technically it should be restricted to command crew only. You will have to access it for me – I cannot use a projected keyboard without sight.'

'You know, I'm sure there're some old style ones in the sickbay store room,' Chapel murmured, deftly typing in the commands to access the briefing. 'Sometimes we have patients who aren't mobile enough to reach a dash with the infrared on it, so we haul those out to rest on their laps. I could have one sent down.'

'That would be helpful,' Spock nodded.

'And I guess with a little tinkering someone like Scotty could convert your terminal back to speech output. Oh, here's the briefing.' She paused, running her eyes over the details. 'The captain's followed your recommendations for the chemical balance in the satellites. Overnight tests in the lab were successful. The satellites are due to complete construction at 1145 hours. There's a briefing at 11:50 in Briefing Room 3 to confirm final details. The satellites will be loaded up with the chemicals as soon as possible after that, aiming for a launch at 1500 hours. They should be in position for activation at 16:45.'

'And then your casualties will begin,' Spock pointed out.

'Yes,' she said gravely. 'I think there's going to be a lot of pain in sickbay this afternoon.'

'You have dedicated enough time to me already, Miss Chapel,' Spock said quietly. 'Surely you are on duty?'

'Yes, I am,' she nodded. 'I'm trying to help someone who's just lost his sight – not just because it's part of my job,' she said quickly. 'But it certainly counts as part of my duties. I'm the only one in the department with any experience of dealing with blindness, and we have all the nurses and doctors on duty at the moment, so I think they can spare me.'

'Well, you *_are*_ here with the authority of the First Officer,' Spock said with a faint degree of humour.

'That's true,' she smiled. 'Mr Spock, I was hoping that Dr McCoy might say something more positive about your eyes – but in case he didn't – I went to see Mr Scott last night to talk to him about a Braille printer.'

'Surely Mr Scott is busy with the satellites,' Spock pointed out.

'Well, he is right now, but this afternoon he's going to sit down and work out a way to convert a conventional printer to punch the dots that make up Braille into an appropriate material, and he's hoping to have something workable by the end of the day. We already have hand-held scanners on board that read printed text and convert it to computer text. All we need to do is hook up the scanner and a printer to your terminal here, and you can turn anything you like into tactile writing.'

'That is very impressive,' Spock nodded. 'The only problem you forget is that I cannot read Braille.'

'Not yet,' she said, putting something down on the desk in front of him. 'That's why I made these cards up.'

Spock reached out to feel a small pile of thick paper cards on the desk, each one studded with tiny bumps.

'I have never encountered Braille before,' he admitted. 'Could you explain what I am feeling?'

'See here,' she said, putting his fingertip to one Braille letter. 'The basis is a cell of six dots – two at the top, two in the middle, two at the bottom. Each letter is made up from a combination of those dots.'

'I see,' he nodded, letting his fingertip move lightly over the bumps. 'You made these?' he asked.

'Scotty just had time to make a simple frame and stylus from a schematic in a history text. It's based on a Victorian idea – you slip the paper into the frame and prick the bumps out from behind with a sharp stylus. I hope they're clear enough.'

'They feel different from one another,' Spock said, running a finger carefully along the line. 'Although I have no idea what each one means.'

'Well, you're a step ahead of most of the people I saw at Dekalan,' she smiled. 'Quite often it takes people – especially adults – a long time just to develop the sensitivity to feel the differences. This first card – the one you're touching – has the first half of the alphabet on it. I tried to space them out pretty well for you to learn them, but in normal type they'll be a lot closer together.'

'Then this is the letter *_a*_?' Spock asked, lightly brushing his fingertip over the first symbol and trying to commit the feeling of it to memory. 'Is that a single dot?'

'That's right. That card has the letters up to M on it. The second one's N through Z.'

'It would be possible to create a computer display to show Braille,' Spock said thoughtfully, running his finger again over the tiny dots. 'A panel of small pins, perhaps covered with rubber or plastic, that raise up to form the letters in infinite combinations. If I had such a display I could carry it about with me – plug it into any computer and have it translate what is on the screen.'

'If it was intricate enough, possibly it could show diagrams too,' Chapel put in.

Spock shook his head, putting the card down on the desk. 'Where would I be without your optimism, Christine?' he asked. 'Every problem I encounter, you seem to find a solution.'

'Oh, I don't know if I can help with everything,' she smiled. 'But I can do what I can. I'll tell you what – see if you can commit the different letters on those cards to memory, and I'll make us some coffee to help the process along.'

Spock nodded, picking up the first card again and running his finger over it carefully, going through the letters of the alphabet in his head as he felt over each symbol.

'Do you want to try one of the other cards?' Chapel asked as she returned with two cups of coffee. 'See if you can pick out any letters in actual text.'

She placed a card in front of him, and Spock put his finger to the first line. He sat with his forehead creased, feeling the first few words over and over.

'It is not the same as individual letters well spaced out,' he said finally. 'I – believe the initial word may be *_the*_, but I am unsure. I am extrapolating from expected norms.'

'Well, I'm afraid it's not *_the*_ – but don't worry, Mr Spock. Like I said, most adults take a long time to learn to read Braille – some never manage it. You're doing much better than you would if you were human.'

'My mother would tell me *_practice makes perfect*_.'

'Your mother must be a wise woman,' Chapel smiled.

Spock nodded abstractedly, running his fingers again over the cards with a frown on his face. 'A very cumbersome system,' he murmured, almost to himself. 'Surely someone has invented a more practical version…'

'There are contractions – single symbols for common words, and so on – but it's best just to start with the alphabet. I don't know enough about it to teach you much more than that, so I guess you'll have to wait until you can attend rehabilitation training.'

'I seem to be finding that every part of life requires far more time, effort and concentration when one is conducting it without sight,' Spock said with restrained impatience. 'Going to another part of the ship is an expedition that requires planning and slow progress. Eating is a tactile detective game in which one must attempt to find and recognise food through metal implements. Even reading is reduced to a fingertip search.'

'You will be able to read *_much*_ faster once you're used to it,' Chapel promised him, touching his arm reassuringly. 'Perhaps not at the speed you're used to, but maybe up to four or five hundred words per minute – perhaps more, depending on how skilled you are.'

'I am used to around two thousand words per minute,' Spock said flatly.

Chapel exhaled lightly. 'Well, I don't know if Braille can stand up to Vulcan sight reading speed, but if your sense of touch is as superior to a human's as your sight is then I guess you'll be able to read a good deal faster than the average Braille reader.'

'It is better than a human's,' Spock nodded. 'Which will help with this Braille, but I don't see how tasks such as eating with a knife and fork will be improved.'

'A heightened sense of touch will help with a lot of things,' she reassured him. 'You just need time to learn the distinctions between things. You're already adapting. I can see that just in the way you're moving. It's not just your fingers that feel. You can sense air currents changing around you, feel the differences in the floor through your feet. With time you'll probably start to notice the way sound changes around you in different spaces, so you'll be able to sense walls or objects by the echoes they give off. You'll notice different people's scents and walking patterns as well as the difference in their voices.'

'Perhaps that is true,' Spock admitted sombrely, his fingers feeling again over the Braille alphabet. The fact that he did not want to *_have*_ to adapt in those ways was irrelevant. It seemed that he *_would*_ have to, regardless of personal preference. He moved his hand to the card containing text again. 'Say,' he said abruptly. 'The first word is *_say*_?'

'That's right!' she said. He could hear the joy in her voice. 'Try the next.'

'S again… Then – o?' He moved his hand back to the alphabet card for reference, then back to the text card again. 'M – e – then – s? No – t? Something. It says *_something*_?'

'You're extrapolating again. Check the final letters to be sure.'

Spock frowned, feeling over the bumps carefully. 'It does say *_something*_. *_Sa*_ – i – d – *_say something said*_.'

'That's right. But you know that because you read the letters, not because you guessed. It's speech, an extract from a book. I haven't put any punctuation marks in at this stage.'

'*_Say something said Troy*_.' Spock lifted his head, looking quizzical. 'Nurse Chapel, what is this I am reading?'

'It's – er – it's from a romance novel,' she admitted. 'I wanted to use something you wouldn't have read.'

'That is certainly true,' Spock nodded.

'Keep going,' she urged him. 'Try the rest. You're doing incredibly well.'

Spock's forehead creased in a frown as he touched the card again. 'I have lost my place,' he said, the frustration clear in his voice. 'It takes so long to find it, cross-referencing each letter…'

'Here,' she said, putting her hand over his and moving his finger to the right letter. 'It's my fault – I distracted you. When you're better at recognising the letters it'll be a whole lot quicker. Now, I can stay until eleven – you might have the whole alphabet under your belt by then, and we can start on punctuation and contractions.'

'And then I must prepare to attend the briefing,' Spock nodded. 'I will take some time to visualise the route before undertaking it in reality. That may help me avoid the problems I encountered this morning.'


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Spock found his way alone to Briefing Room 3, arriving two minutes before 11:50, to his estimation. He stood for a moment just down the corridor, resting his hand on the wall and sensing the presence of the captain, trying to be certain he had found the right place. He stepped closer to the door and ran his finger over the recessed letters on the name plate. They were not easy to make out, but the 3, at least, was quite clear. He took a deep breath, smoothed down his top, and stepped through the door as it opened.

There was a moment of silence. Spock could feel the uneasy surprise rippling through the room's occupants. He could almost hear McCoy biting back an acerbic comment.

Spock steeled himself, and said calmly, 'Could someone show me to a seat?'

There was another hesitation, then Kirk jumped to his feet and came over to the Vulcan, saying, 'Here, Commander. Sit down.'

Spock sat carefully in the seat Jim took him to, realising as he felt the table in front of him that it was his usual spot, at the narrow end of the table by a computer monitor, despite the fact that he could not use the computer.

'Thank you, Captain,' he murmured, collapsing the cane and placing it silently on the table.

'You know, you're on sick leave,' Kirk said in an equally low tone. 'You don't have to be at this briefing.'

'No,' Spock nodded. 'But I *_wished*_ to be at this briefing. I am not sick, Captain.'

'All right, Mr Spock,' Kirk said in a louder voice. 'I welcome your input. Shall we begin, gentlemen?'

Spock nodded, resisting the urge to ask who else was around the table. He would have to get used to certain areas of ignorance – he could not expect his colleagues to spend their time describing his surroundings for him.

He heard the click of the recording button being depressed, then Kirk began.

'We're here to discuss the impending irradiation of the planet Deneva and its population in order to free them from parasitic alien control,' Kirk said succinctly. 'Satellite deployment is scheduled for 1500 hours. Mr Scott proposes one hundred satellites spread equidistant from north to south pole, first irradiating the more populated eastern hemisphere, then reloading and irradiating the western.'

'Sir,' Spock began, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. 'You intend to treat the planet one hemisphere at a time?'

'That was our intention,' Kirk nodded.

'Captain, I submit that it is necessary to treat the whole planet simultaneously.'

'Mr Spock, I take yer point, but it takes twenty minutes for a team to build and prepare each satellite,' Scott protested from the other end of the table, 'and with you out of commission – begging your pardon, sir – I can only muster two teams with the skills to do it. We'd need twice as many satellites as we have now!'

'At least a hundred more, to be placed in a grid pattern about the planet,' Spock nodded.

'One hundred more…' Scott echoed in dismay. 'Captain - !'

'And a significant delay before treatment, Spock,' Kirk added.

'I would estimate at least a twenty hour delay,' Spock nodded calmly. 'Taking into account the necessary testing and other related procedures.'

'Spock, in those twenty hours you could be condemning thousands to death,' McCoy protested angrily. 'Surely you understand that? You've been through that pain!'

Spock turned his head to where the doctor had spoken from, suppressing his unease at addressing a room full of people whose reactions he could not see.

'Doctor, to act now may condemn further millions to death,' he countered calmly. 'As a medical practitioner you must understand the principle. Unless every creature is eliminated the infection will spread again. It could only take one infected person.' He turned back towards the captain. 'Sir, the Denevan population possesses transporters, supersonic aircraft, and hyper-speed shuttle systems. The creatures are quite capable of manipulating their hosts – as I well know, Doctor,' he said, turning back towards McCoy. 'They also possess an extremely efficient hive mentality. They are able to communicate amongst themselves almost instantaneously. Those left alive after the first wave of treatment will be fully aware of what has happened. In the time that it takes to recover the satellites, reload them, and reposition them in the western hemisphere, it is quite probable that a number of them will cause their transportation to the irradiated hemisphere, and the infection will begin anew.'

'And if they force the launch of craft while we delay?' Kirk asked pointedly.

'Then we disable said crafts on launch, remove any human occupants, treat them with ultraviolet light, and destroy the craft involved – I would suggest by propelling it into the Denevan sun, Captain,' Spock said flatly. 'I believe that is the only option, Jim.'

There was a long silence, and Spock sat, waiting for some kind of audible response. Finally, Kirk said;

'Acknowledged, Commander. Scott, I want those extra satellites as soon as possible. Spock, I want you on the bridge at the beginning of Beta shift to – ' He broke off, meeting Spock's sightless gaze.

'Sir?' Spock queried.

'I – ' He hesitated, then said, 'I want you to consult with Chekov. Work out the exact number of satellites needed, the intensity and focussing of the radiation, and the most efficient layout for the satellites to be sure the entire planet feels the effects. Do – you think you can manage that?' he asked more quietly.

'I will need access to Denevan weather predictions to adjust for cloud cover and atmospheric humidity, an idea of the centres of population, the lab reports on the radiation treatment.'

'Chekov can gather that data and recount it to you,' Kirk nodded. 'Do you think you can work out what you need to without being able to note it down?'

'I believe so, sir,' Spock nodded. Just sitting here now he could visualise the approximate layout of satellites needed. The more complicated task would be communicating the mathematics to Chekov.

'Fine. I also want you to make sure there's a way of stopping any craft launched without harming the occupants. I don't want any more lives lost.'

'Yes, sir,' Spock nodded. 'Sir – ' he continued rather awkwardly.

Kirk glanced at him, quickly reading his reluctance to speak of personal difficulties before the full briefing room.

'Dismissed,' he said quickly, waving a hand at the others in the room. 'What is it, Spock?' he asked as the room emptied, coming round to perch on the edge of the table near him.

'May I request the assistance of Nurse Chapel in these next few days?' Spock asked somewhat reluctantly.

'Of course, Spock,' Kirk said, but his voice registered his surprise.

'She is the only member of the medical staff who has experience in assisting the visually impaired,' Spock explained rather defensively. 'Chekov, for all of his skills, can hardly be expected to aid me in those areas.'

'Well, in that case I'm sure McCoy can spare her,' Kirk shrugged. 'But why ask me? Why not just call McCoy?'

Spock sighed. 'I do not feel – equipped – to endure the good doctor's peculiar form of teasing, Jim. I have no doubt he would have much to make of my request.'

'Well, you're probably right, Spock,' Kirk nodded. 'Tell you what – I'll drop into sickbay on my way to engineering, and put in the request personally. But for now, since you've handed us a few extra hours, I'm going to go get lunch. Have you eaten, Spock?'

'No, sir,' Spock said, neglecting to add that due to his inability to read the replicator discs, and an inbuilt reluctance to call a yeoman to his quarters to serve him, he was intending to avoid meals until he could work out some system of arranging them himself.

'Care to join me?'

Spock hesitated for a moment, trying to rationalise and dispose of his insecurity about the idea of trying to eat neatly in a public rec room.

'I will, Captain,' he nodded finally, getting up and extending his cane.

A brief silence followed, then Kirk said awkwardly, 'How do I – er – I mean, do you need me to guide you?'

'The accepted method seems to be for the visually impaired to hold on to the sighted guide's arm, just above the elbow,' Spock explained calmly. 'But if the corridors are quiet, I believe I will be able to manage with the cane, by listening to your movement – if you will bear with my slowness.'

'Of course, Spock,' Kirk said quickly. 'Okay…'

The awkward silence fell again, and Spock said softly, 'I find this as difficult as you do, Jim. I am not used to such reliance on others. But I think we will get used to it.'

'I guess so,' Kirk smiled. 'Come on then. Want me to stamp my feet a little?'

Spock heard the humour in his voice, and appreciated the effort. 'I don't think that will be necessary, Captain,' he said.

He focussed his attention tightly on the sound of Kirk's movements as he began walking down the corridor, trying to keep to a normal pace and trusting that Kirk would warn him of people in the way before he struck them with the cane. Perhaps as such focus became second nature it would take less conscious concentration, and he would be able to move with more ease.

'Here, Spock,' Kirk said finally, touching his arm as a door hissed open to Spock's left. The noise of bustle and talk inside gave him pause, despite his resolve to face the crew as if nothing had changed. The place had transformed from a convenient place to eat and socialise into a maze of invisible obstacles and confusing noise.

'I will need your arm here, Captain,' he said quietly.

'Okay,' Kirk murmured, guiding his hand to his arm. 'Like this?'

'Yes, sir,' Spock nodded.

He followed Kirk across the busy room, studiously ignoring the murmurs of surprise that greeted his entry.

'Here, sit down,' Kirk told him, helping Spock to a chair with an over-solicitous degree of care. 'What'd you like to eat?'

Spock considered, thinking not just of what he desired but what he felt he could eat easily and neatly. 'I will have green tea and – a cheese sandwich on wholegrain, please.'

'A *_sandwich*_?' Kirk asked in amazement. 'That's not like you, Spock.'

'It is what I would like to eat,' Spock said with a tinge of impatience in his voice. He did not want to sit here and explain to Kirk exactly why he did not want to tackle a bowl of vegetarian yakisoba noodles or a plate of *_t'vash* _in front of multiple crew members.

'Okay,' Kirk said soothingly. 'I'll get you your sandwich. I'll be back in a moment.'

'Thank you, Captain,' Spock nodded.

Spock waited at the table, pondering on how odd the daytime sounds of the rec room seemed when essentially all around him was night. A dubious advantage of his condition was that it was easier to pick up on individual conversations now, without the distractions of sight. He could hear a low murmur picking up in the room – people obviously noticing his presence and indulging in the human urge for gossip. Most comments seemed to be sympathetic or expressing shock. A couple, however, were not so favourable. He was not surprised – he knew that not everyone on the ship liked him, or his particular way of doing things.

One voice in particular was one he recognised almost instantly – an ensign from the labs that he often had to reprimand for sloppy work, tardiness or inappropriate language. He could clearly hear him, in what the ensign presumably believed was a quiet tone, laughing and suggesting practical jokes that could be pulled to humiliate him in his blindness.

Spock waited for a moment, but despite the ensign's companion making protests the remarks were not rescinded or laughed away as a momentary joke.

Spock raised his voice, and said clearly, 'Ensign Walker, come here.'

Silence fell. Spock waited. Finally a chair scraped, and he heard the ensign walking towards him.

'Yes, sir?' the familiar voice said when he reached him. From his tone Spock assumed he was about to pretend innocence. He didn't bother to stand or raise his head since he could not see the person in front of him.

'Ensign, you would be wise to remember that while my eyesight is essentially nil, my hearing is still far superior to that of most on this ship,' Spock said sternly. 'I will not tolerate such suggestions as you were making to be aired in a public area.'

'Sir, that wasn't – ' he began.

'It *_was*_ you,' Spock cut across. 'And it will not behove you to attempt to deceive me.'

'Yes, sir,' the man said, with a level of contriteness that Spock was sure was false.

'You will inform Mr Scott that you have volunteered to degrease the internal warp control mechanisms – all of them.'

Spock turned his head at the sound of footsteps approaching, ignoring the beginnings of a protest from the ensign. The combination of scent, sound and a shadow impression of the personality in his mind told him indisputably that it was Kirk.

'Captain,' he said calmly.

'Everything all right, Mr Spock?' Kirk asked. Spock gained the impression that Kirk was completely aware of what had just happened – he was simply giving him the choice of handing responsibility over to him.

'Perfectly, Captain,' Spock said smoothly. 'Dismissed, Ensign.'

'What was that about?' Kirk asked, sotto voce, as he put a plate down in front of Spock.

'A problem of respect,' Spock told him. 'I had expected to – lose face – in front of some crew members due to this disability. I had not expected such behaviour to manifest itself so soon, however.'

'It shouldn't manifest at all,' Kirk muttered. 'It's the last thing you need.'

'I am quite used to being regarded as – an oddity, Captain,' Spock said carefully.

'Not on _*my*_ ship,' Kirk said with restrained anger. 'Anyway, Ensign Walker will have plenty of time to regret it while he scrubs grease off Scotty's engines. You handled it well, Spock.'

Spock nodded in acknowledgement, but his lips were pursed pensively as he listened to Ensign Walker muttering something too low to be heard, and then leaving the room. Ensign Walker was not the only person on the ship that he knew disliked him. There was Lieutenant Stiles with his long-held grudge against Vulcanoids, Lieutenant Boma with his deep-seated antipathy towards Spock's logical way of working, and too many others who jarred with his race or personality. He had experienced plenty of bigoted behaviour growing up, but he had never quite learnt to accept it unemotionally. He was not looking forward to making his way around the ship in darkness when there might be such people waiting to disrupt his progress.

'I'll put out a memo to all department heads,' Kirk said softly, correctly interpreting his preoccupation. 'If anyone tries anything – if anyone so much as speaks out against you – I'll come down on them so hard they won't know what's happened to them.'

Spock nodded silently, his gratitude showing in the relaxation that moved through his shoulders and back. Kirk's voice had shaken slightly with anger as he made his statement, and Spock had no doubt that anyone encountering that wrath would have definite cause to regret it.

'Anyway, we came here for lunch,' Kirk said in a louder voice. 'And I don't see why we should let the Ensign Walkers of the world disrupt that.'

'No, indeed, Captain,' Spock nodded, feeling carefully in front of himself for his plate. He found the soft fabric of a napkin, and then, to the left, the cold, curved edge of a plate.

'I took the liberty of getting you a side salad, too,' Kirk told him as Spock's fingertips encountered something other than sandwich. 'Nothing awkward – just some lettuce, cherry tomatoes and sliced peppers. No dressing.'

'Thank you, Jim,' Spock said warmly, grateful that Kirk had interpreted his hesitation before without his having to speak of it. 'My drink?' he asked, reluctant to start feeling around for a cup of hot liquid.

'About – four inches in front of your left hand. Want me to pass it?'

'I can find it,' he said, reaching out tentatively until his fingertips touched the hot cup.

'Spock, how – ' Kirk began as Spock took a sip of his drink. 'I mean – how are you dealing with this? A day ago you could see. You seem to be managing – remarkably well.'

Spock pursed his lips, running a finger along the edge of his plate. 'I – am not,' he said finally.

'You got to the briefing room alone today. McCoy said you managed almost all the way from your quarters to sickbay. I can't imagine how hard it must be, doing that in the dark…'

He shook his head. 'I would not say it is easy, but I am favoured with a good memory. Navigating on a ship with which I am so familiar is not such a problem. It is the smaller things that present difficulties.'

'Smaller things?'

'What are you eating, Captain?' Spock asked as if changing the subject. 'I smell – chicken, some kind of vinegar based dressing?'

'Yes – it's chicken salad and a bread roll.'

'You are using a fork?'

'Well – yes.'

'Close your eyes, Captain, and attempt to eat your salad with your fork.' He waited a few moments, then asked, 'How do you find it?'

He could almost hear Kirk's rueful smile. 'Difficult,' he said. 'And damn frustrating.'

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'I realise that many of my small difficulties will be overcome with practice and adaptive techniques, but at the moment I am finding it – damn frustrating, as you say.'

'Spock – what about getting yourself meals?' Kirk asked suddenly. 'I didn't think about how you were managing that.'

'Yeoman Rand provided me with breakfast. Last night I ordered from the galley.'

'That's fine for dinner,' Kirk nodded. 'But can you use the replicator?'

Spock shook his head. 'I must find some way of distinguishing between the discs. I cannot see a way of doing so with the ones in public spaces such as this – not until I can read tactile writing effectively, and without a systematic policy of marking them with such.'

Kirk sighed. 'There's a lot we need to work out, isn't there, Spock? Has McCoy spoken to you about things like this?'

'The doctor is extraordinarily busy at the moment. I do not expect him to be able to allocate time to such things until this crisis is past. I am not without the ability to ask for help if I need it.'

'You don't want me to allocate a yeoman to come and help you?'

'No, thank you,' Spock said firmly. The idea of having a relative stranger entering his quarters, serving him, and possibly interfering with the familiar layout of his rooms, was highly disagreeable.

'Well, our mission status has been changed so we can stay at Deneva indefinitely, until this crisis is resolved or another relief vessel can be dispatched – so it looks like we're here at least for the next few weeks, Spock,' Kirk told him. 'It's a double edged sword. No one's going to be rushing you off the ship, but unless we send you off in a shuttle you're not going to be able to go for rehabilitation elsewhere for a while either.'

'I – do acknowledge the logic of entering some form of rehabilitation as swiftly as possible,' Spock said carefully. 'However, I do not relish the idea of changing my surroundings at the moment.'

'No,' Kirk nodded, reading the unspoken addendum – that entering rehabilitation would be admitting, only a day after the event, that Spock's blindness was permanent. 'But that still leaves the question, Spock. What are you going to do about all the little things you're finding hard? I'd like to be there every time you need help, but we both know that's not possible – especially with the current situation.'

'No, I do know that,' Spock nodded pensively. 'I – will simply have to do my best to adapt as quickly as possible. Nurse Chapel has been most helpful in suggesting adaptive techniques.'

'Well, what about your replicator discs? How about you work out a few different selections for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and we mark them with different shapes that you can feel? I could make some shapes from felt and stick them on.'

'That would be highly useful,' Spock nodded, his demeanour brightening a little. 'And I have managed to master a rudimentary ability to read Braille this morning, although I am far from proficient.'

'Well, that's a step in the right direction. And perhaps McCoy could do some research on things to help you. And speak of the devil – here's the good doctor now, Spock.'

Spock instinctively raised his head, but he realised that although he could not see the doctor, he could pick out the soft noise of his footsteps coming towards them.

'Doctor,' he nodded as he reached them.

'Well, Spock – you've gained us a couple'a hours breathing space,' McCoy said as he sat down opposite him.

'Perhaps, Doctor,' Spock nodded. 'Although I imagine the time could be filled quite profitably.'

'Perhaps,' McCoy nodded. 'But a man's gotta eat, Spock. Anyway, I need to talk to you,' he said in a more serious tone. 'As the ship's CMO I've got a duty to keep fleet headquarters updated on serious medical conditions affecting the crew – and this is a pretty serious condition.'

'Doctor, I hardly think this is the forum for such discussions,' Spock said tersely.

'Spock, the room's empty!' McCoy protested. 'What better forum is there?'

Spock paused, turning his concentration to the area around him. He had not noticed the waning of chatter as the lunch time peak passed. 'Acknowledged,' Spock nodded. 'But still - '

'I just need to advise you of what my duties are,' McCoy pushed. 'Essentially – you've got a month's breathing space, Spock. Each crew member is allowed one month of sick leave before fleet needs to be advised or other medical advice sought.'

'Then I *_am*_ on sick leave?' Spock asked.

'Technically. I can't do anything else, Spock. I can't sign you fit for duty yet. Whether or not Jim lets you – help out – is another matter.'

'*_Help out*_,' Spock echoed flatly. 'I am not a visiting school child, Doctor.'

'Okay, bad choice of terms – but you have to admit that you're not capable of standing on that bridge or in the labs and carrying out a full day's work.'

Spock pursed his lips together. He was continually reminded of his disability as it was – he didn't need McCoy to reiterate it to him. It was so much more frustrating that he was perfectly capable mentally – just so stiflingly limited physically. He knew his irritation towards the doctor was a product of his own emotional failings rather than anything McCoy was doing, but knowing that didn't help.

'Doctor, I really do not wish to discuss this at the present time,' Spock said heavily. 'Enough has changed in my life. You say I have a month's respite before I must leave the _Enterprise_ – '

'Spock, you're completely misunderstanding me!' McCoy said impatiently. 'I haven't said anything about leaving. I'm just saying you've got a month's grace before anything official happens. You have that much time to adapt, to think about what you want to do – to think about whether or not you want to fight to stay here. That's something you and me and Jim need to discuss together – that's why I'm here.'

'I do not *_want*_ to leave the ship,' Spock said after a moment's silence. 'I do not wish to leave Starfleet.'

'And I don't want to lose you as my First Officer, Spock,' Kirk put in. 'Your tactical input, your insight, your advice – they're all invaluable.'

'Jim, whatever I wish to do, it will be necessary to convince the officials at Command that I can manage,' Spock said seriously. 'I may be able to advise you, but I still cannot see. I cannot imagine Command giving backing to a First Officer who is almost totally blind.'

'Well, you're Vulcan – that gives you an immediate advantage,' McCoy said reassuringly. 'You've got superior hearing, superior sense of touch, superior mental faculties, more finite control of your responses.'

'So in fact, Doctor, you are acknowledging that my Vulcan physiology is superior to a human's?' Spock asked slyly.

'Don't push it, Spock,' McCoy muttered. 'You may be able to hear a pin drop at twenty metres, but it's your superior Vulcan eye construction that's rendered you blind.'

'True,' Spock nodded.

'Anyway, I thought the best course of action was to assume that you're not going to regain your sight, Spock,' McCoy said, a little nervously. 'Now, I'm not saying that's true,' he added quickly. 'Don't think for a moment that I've given up on that. But you're intelligent enough to understand the sense in moving on as quickly as possible.'

Spock nodded briefly. A small part of him wanted to sit in his room and wait for this foolishness to pass, for his eyes to decide to see again – but a much larger body of rationality and training told him that McCoy was right.

'There is considerable sense in swift adaptation,' he nodded.

'Otherwise you'll end up in a kind of limbo,' McCoy continued. 'This way, you'll be independent as soon as possible. Christine seems to have your day to day needs in hand, so we need to focus on what you need to do your job.'

'Yes,' Spock nodded pensively. The numerous facets of his job seemed insurmountable without sight.

'Spock, if we take it for granted that most ship's instruments can be adapted to speech or tactile output, what do you think is within your reach without sight?' Kirk asked, leaning forward over the table.

Spock sat, considering his console on the bridge. A large proportion of it was sound based anyway. It would be easy enough for him to relearn the controls with touch. His viewer and the display screens were the most problematic. And then there was the problem of away missions, leading landing parties, exploring new environments and encountering new lifeforms. Perhaps many things would just be a case of learning to use his remaining senses to build up a picture, but some things would be impossible. So many avenues of possibility in his life had so abruptly been closed to him.

'Do you think Starfleet might be conducive to providing me with an assistant?' he asked.

'It's possible,' Kirk nodded. 'You've got an entitlement to a personal yeoman that you haven't taken up. And you're valuable to the fleet, Spock. I don't think they'd want to lose you on the _Enterprise_ if they could avoid it.'

'Without an assistant I would find certain lab activities and physical tasks difficult. With an assistant, I imagine I would be able to carry out most shipboard activities, and some planetary ones. But I do not believe I could carry a weapon or enter combat situations. I would be severely hampered in unfamiliar surroundings. I can extrapolate a certain amount of information from this cane Nurse Chapel has supplied me with, and because of my hearing I am more capable than a human may be of echo-location. However, that would not help much if I had to move quickly or decisively.'

'Well, I can push for you to continue your shipboard activities pretty much as they are, and we can review the field duties as time goes on,' Kirk nodded. 'I'm signing you off active duty for this next week – on McCoy's advice as well as my own judgement,' he said as Spock opened his mouth to protest. 'I'm not saying you can't have an involvement in what's going on on Deneva – like I said, I welcome your input – but you need a chance to rest, and you need a chance to adapt.'

'Of course, Captain,' Spock nodded reluctantly.

'It's partly for the logs, Spock, signing you off,' Kirk reassured him again. 'I can't let you carry on as if nothing has happened – Command'd think I'd gone crazy. But you know I want you to be active in this mission. Hell, I wouldn't've asked you to consult with Chekov if I didn't.'

Spock nodded again, pushing his empty plate away from him. 'Yes, I know,' he nodded. 'And speaking of Chekov – I should go to see him. I may have bought us some time,' he said, turning towards McCoy. 'But not *_that_* much more.'

******

It took him a little more than an hour with Chekov to work out what was needed for the extra satellites. Spock opted to meet him in a briefing room rather than on the bridge, ostensibly because it was easier to consult in such an environment, but the overriding reason was that he did not feel confident to appear before the entire bridge crew in his current condition, when he needed so much help to do anything. Between them they settled upon two hundred and ten satellites orbiting at seventy-two miles, operating for a minimum duration of thirty seconds. After going through the calculations step by step with Chekov he was finally satisfied that the pattern of dispersal would be just as he had calculated it in his head.

But when the consultation was over Spock found himself feeling curiously redundant again – he was needed for nothing, and could do very little. Eventually he decided to call Nurse Chapel up to request her assistance, and see if he could continue the work he had been carrying out in the lab before any of this Deneva crisis had begun. It was surprisingly easy to continue the experiment with her being his eyes and hands for him. He had found her an able lab assistant in the past, but now she was invaluable. Then, as the afternoon was drawing into evening, the intercom sounded, and he found himself being summoned to the sickbay by McCoy.

As Spock entered McCoy's office he realised that Kirk was there too, but he was curiously silent. The level of tension in the room was almost audible.

'Captain,' he said softly, turning his head towards where he judged Kirk to be. 'Doctor.'

'Spock, come sit down,' Kirk said in a voice loaded with repressed emotion. He touched Spock's elbow to lead him to a chair, then sat himself.

'Doctor?' Spock asked, aware that he was sitting on one side of McCoy's desk, and that the doctor was on the other side.

'Spock, I – er – I spoke to Shir Kahr Central Hospital a few minutes ago,' McCoy began tentatively 'An ophthalmologist called Sirkan.'

'Yes, Doctor,' Spock prompted. It was obvious from McCoy's tone that he was wrestling with some kind of grave emotion, but for now he felt more concerned with how this conversation related to his sight loss than to McCoy's feelings.

'He said – ' McCoy took a deep breath, then began again. 'He said that he'd only seen one case before of the Vulcan eye being exposed to such an intense light, but he'd treated a few cases with a lower intensity.'

'Yes, Doctor,' Spock nodded again. It was obvious that McCoy was stalling.

'He agrees with me that your human genetics may have rendered the tissue more unstable – more unsuitable for very bright light.'

'Yes, Doctor,' Spock said, trying hard to keep the impatience from his voice. 'What was his conclusion?'

'Spock – he said that if – if you had been treated with a pentazium compound and taken into surgery within half an hour, we *_might*_ have been able to separate the fused tissue from the body of the eye. But – the longer the eyelid is sealed, the less chance there is of retracting it.'

Spock took a careful breath, focussing on keeping his voice steady. 'And after twenty-four hours, Doctor?'

'Spock, he said that after *_five*_ hours there's no point in operating – it would do more harm than good.'

Spock nodded with rigid control. Kirk was silent, but he could tell that he, like McCoy, was struggling to contain some kind of emotion.

'It could not be helped, Doctor,' Spock said flatly.

'I – should have stayed with you,' McCoy began uselessly. 'Examined your eyes, done *_some*_thing. I shouldn't have taken it for granted…'

'I do not expect you to have intimate anatomical and treatment knowledge of the Vulcan eye, Doctor,' Spock told him. 'You assumed, quite logically, that my optic nerves were destroyed. I did not tell you that I had residual light perception, so you had no reason to believe otherwise. By the time you had examined my eyes, discovered the problem, placed a call to the hospital on Vulcan, discussed the problem with a doctor there, and agreed on the requisite treatment, far longer than half an hour would have passed.'

'Spock, I'm so sorry,' McCoy said wretchedly, as if he had not been listening.

Spock sighed. 'Doctor, recriminations are useless. You have spoken to Sirkan. Did he suggest anything positive that might be done?'

There was a pause, where Spock imagined some kind of body language was suggesting a negative. Then finally McCoy said, 'He couldn't offer any treatment options. He told me to refer you to a rehabilitation centre on Vulcan. That was it.'

'I see,' Spock nodded. 'Thank you, Doctor.' He stood stiffly, caught up in his own illogical emotions and his attempt to suppress them. 'I must get back to the lab. Thank you for informing me of this.'

He walked swiftly out of the room, through sickbay and out into the corridor, relying on the assumption that his path was clear as it had been on the way in. Once he was outside, however, he stopped short, taking a moment to reassure himself that the corridor was empty before clenching his fists hard enough to dent titanium. At moment he wanted nothing more than to be able to break something – to stand in his room like a child and smash everything within reach.

'Spock,' Kirk's voice said behind him.

His control was so degraded at that point that he almost jumped. He had not even heard the sickbay doors open.

'What is it, Captain?' he said, an unwarranted degree of sharpness roughening his voice.

'I know you must be distraught – ' he began.

'You are mistaken,' Spock said blankly. 'Excuse me, Captain. As I said, I need to get back to the lab. I am running an experiment that – '

'*_Spock*_,' Kirk cut across him, putting a hand to his arm. He waited a moment, watching the Vulcan, seeing the trembling emotion that he was fighting with being gradually suppressed. He was unsure that the Vulcan would be able to easily make it to the lab in his distracted state, and any problems now would only upset him further. 'I'm walking down that way anyway. Do you mind if I walk with you?'

'No. … No, of course not, Captain,' he said in a slightly warmer tone.

'Thanks,' he said, moving off down the corridor, hesitating just long enough to be sure the Vulcan was confident to follow him. 'What is it you've got brewing in the lab, then?' he asked, hoping to guide the Vulcan tacitly by talking to him.

'I was attempting to analyse the degradation of minoxline when exposed to space-normal radiation,' Spock said. He knew he should try to focus his mind on that, instead of a personal problem that couldn't be changed, but the fact of his blindness kept lowering like a shadow over everything else. 'It could be a useful visual indicator of radiation levels in environmental suits. I have been combining it with different chemicals in order to alter the reaction.'

'Sounds – fascinating,' Kirk told him, touching his arm lightly to guide him as the corridor curved.

'I cannot now analyse my own results,' Spock said flatly. 'Or handle the chemicals needed for the experiment.'

'Oh…' Kirk replied. 'So you're – '

'Relying on a lab technician for assistance – but it does not compare to my own observations.'

'McCoy thought the functions of a basic tricorder could be extended to help you,' Kirk began. He glanced at the Vulcan's face, noticing a tightening of his facial muscles as he mentioned the doctor's name. 'You're angry at Bones.'

Spock pursed his lips together. 'I do not have the right to be angry at Dr McCoy. It is not logical to be angry at him.'

'That doesn't mean it's not natural to be angry at him,' Kirk pointed out. 'He's a healer, and he hasn't healed you. He's angry at himself.'

'I – am finding myself unreasonably angry right now,' Spock said reluctantly. 'Not necessarily at any one thing.'

'I imagine that's quite natural too,' Kirk said softly, increasing the pressure on the Vulcan's arm.

'For a human, yes,' Spock nodded pensively.

'For a *_half*_-human,' Kirk pointed out. 'Anyway, you've told me often enough that it isn't that Vulcans are without emotions – it's just that you've learned to control them, because otherwise they run so strong and deep. And if anything's calculated to try that control, it's the week you've had.'

'Which is why I must try harder to control,' Spock replied, a slight tremble underlying his voice.

'Perhaps you should try letting go for a bit. Riding it out.'

'*_Not here*_,' Spock said, his voice even more strained. 'Not here. Please, Jim. I understand – I appreciate – what you are trying to do, but you do not wish to witness me unleashing the emotions I am currently experiencing in the middle of a crew corridor. No one would benefit.'

'All right, my friend,' Kirk nodded, squeezing his arm again. 'I'll drop the subject for now. Anyway, here's the lab. This is where I leave you,' he said, turning in through the door.

'Oh,' Spock said, trying not to sound too surprised. He had not even noticed entering and exiting the turbolift.

'Will you be all right?'

'I will be fine,' he nodded, grateful that Kirk took his answer as fact and left the room without further fussing. 'Nurse Chapel?' he asked, turning his head towards the sound of movement across the room.

'Technician Wilkins, sir,' a male voice replied. 'Christine had to pop over to handle a problem in intensive care so she called me to stand in for her. She said to tell you she'll be back as soon as possible.'

'I see,' he nodded, moving forward towards the table, trying to rein in his frustration at the fact that he could do almost nothing for himself . 'We will begin by identifying the contents of the lab table - '

'Oh, don't worry, sir – I can handle everything on the table,' the man began brightly.

'We will begin by identifying the contents of the lab table,' Spock repeated more firmly. 'I cannot direct you without being certain of what is on there. I have mentally divided the table into a grid of ten centimetre squares. I assume that the oscilloscope, the radiation exposure drum and the chromatographic scanner are still occupying the coordinates 80:50, 50:50 and 20:50 respectively?'

There was a brief hesitation, and then the man said, 'Er, yes, sir, I think they are.'

'You may use a ruler if you are not certain, Ensign,' Spock said tersely, trying to restrain his impatience. He could only hope that Chapel would return soon, before the annoyance grew too great to control.

******

Even though Spock had only been in the lab ten minutes before Chapel returned, his frustration was close to wearing through his desperate attempts at control. No matter how hard he tried, he could not help but dwell on what McCoy had told him just twenty minutes ago. His knowledge of the fact that he need not have been standing here in darkness only made each small difficulty ten times worse, especially since he was working alongside a lab technician that he barely knew and, logically or not, did not particularly like. Wilkins was nervous and overbearing by turns, touching him, standing too close, hovering over his every movement. Besides that it was almost impossible to get a clear idea from him of how the experiment was progressing. By the time Nurse Chapel returned he was almost distracted by illogical anger, directing it at the experiment before him, at McCoy, at himself, at Christine for leaving him with such an inappropriate assistant, even though she had returned much quicker than he had expected.

'You will need to add two point three ccs of iodine to the solution, then expose it to the prescribed dose of radiation, and describe the colour change to me as it occurs,' he said to her, reaching out towards where he knew the iodine bottle to be. If he could not measure and add the chemicals himself, he could at least pick them off the table to hand to his assistant. But his hand hit something before he expected it, and he heard a bottle clatter and then smash on the floor. He felt almost dizzy with anger at that moment, and he struggled to push the feeling away so that he could continue with his work.

'Be careful!' Chapel snapped, grasping his arm as he moved forwards. His entire body went rigid. 'Let me clear it up.'

'I – am quite capable of attending to the problem myself,' he replied, the strain in his voice indicating just how thin his veneer of control had become.

'Mr Spock, there's broken glass, and you've spilt a flask of – '

'I am not a child, Nurse – and I still have a sense of smell,' he retorted icily. 'I am quite aware that the substance on the floor is iodine.'

'You may have a sense of smell, sir,' she said in a crisply professional tone, finally letting go of his arm. 'But the Reinhold's acid that also spilled has no scent at all, and it would burn your hands down to the bone if you touched it.'

'I had Technician Wilkins identify every object on that table just fourteen minutes ago. There was no Reinhold's acid there.'

'You needed it for the next step in the experiment. I put it down there just a moment ago.'

Spock pressed his lips together hard, a tremor of indefinable emotion running through his body. '*_Do you not understand that I cannot see?*_' he erupted suddenly, his voice nearing a shout. 'Is it because you are female that you cannot comprehend the need for order? I *_must* _be able to rely on the stability of my surroundings. If you are not even capable of verbalising your actions you would be better elsewhere.'

He stopped, suddenly conscious of his lack of control. He clenched his hands together, forcing the blazing emotion back into the recesses of his mind, trying to parcel it down until it became so small that it no longer existed. He took a deep breath, then extended his awareness of the room around him. He could no longer sense the presence of the nurse. He was not surprised. The raw fury in his voice had almost frightened himself.

'Miss Chapel?' he asked tentatively. There was no response. He sighed, taking a moment to compose himself further, and then stepped cautiously backwards, away from the spillage in front of him, to find the intercom and call for a technician to clean up the mess. There was no point in attempting to continue the experiment now. He had to admit to himself that he was barely capable of concentrating, and despite what he had just said, Nurse Chapel was the only assistant he seemed to be able to trust to follow his directions and give him useful feedback. She had given up her time to help him, and he had repaid her with abuse. Repairing the damage in that relationship was far more important than repairing the damage in the lab.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

It took Spock longer than he had expected to reach Nurse Chapel's quarters from the lab. He took at least one wrong turn, and had to trace his footsteps back to a place he recognised before starting again. Finally, however, he reached what he was sure was her door. He touched his fingers to the plate beside it, laboriously tracing out C – H – A – P – E – L, before he pressed the buzzer, and waited to be let in.

He stepped in through the door hesitantly, keeping his cane extended. He could sense the nurse's agitation even before she spoke.

'Commander Spock,' she said flatly, her formal tone only just holding over what sounded like the remnants of tears.

'Christine, I have come to apologise,' Spock said softly, stepping just far enough into the room to let the door close. 'My – tirade – was a product of my own emotional weakness. It had nothing to do with you.' Silence answered him, and he continued, 'I have been nothing but grateful for your assistance, both physical and emotional. It is my own sense of – of frustration, and helplessness, that led me to say what I did.'

'I know,' Chapel said finally, in a voice so quiet he barely heard it. 'Dr McCoy told me what Dr Sirkan said.'

'Yes,' Spock said. 'It was – difficult – news to process.'

'I'm sure… Why don't you sit down, Mr Spock?' she asked after a long silence. 'If you want to talk, that is…'

'Please,' he asked, holding out a hand very slightly. 'I am not familiar with the layout of your rooms. I – would not wish to break anything else.'

'Of course,' she murmured, coming to him. The unconfident tone in his voice was enough to remind her of all he had lost, emotionally more than physically. 'I'm sorry – I shouldn't have run off. I'm used to patients losing their tempers, and I've seen the emotional turmoil in people who've just lost their sight.'

'Perhaps,' Spock nodded, touching her arm and letting her guide him across the room. 'But I do know that I am more than a patient to you. I have hurt you personally, not professionally. I insulted you. I scared you. I would never wish to do that.'

He sat on the chair she took him to, running his hands over it and establishing that it was not a fleet issue chair – it was something more like an antique wing-back, softly upholstered with velvet.

'Something from home,' Chapel explained, seeing his explorations.

'I understand,' Spock nodded, thinking of his own wooden chairs that he had had carefully shipped from Vulcan simply to give himself an illogical reminder of his childhood room. He retracted his cane and put it carefully down on the floor beside the chair. 'I am familiar with the visual layout of almost every communal area on this ship,' he continued. 'I find it – odd – to sit in a room for which I have no visual image.'

'Well, that will happen more and more,' Chapel told him plainly. 'It's something you'll have to get used to. Even familiar things will change.'

Spock raised his head, startled by her tone. It was obvious that she was still upset with him, but he knew that her statement was true.

'What I mean,' she said more softly, 'is that you have to beware of walking around visualising an out-of-date image of your surroundings. You'll walk across a part of a room you know is empty, and find someone's moved a table or a pot plant or sofa. You can control the layout of your own rooms, but you can't do that with the outside world.'

'I can, of course, ask for a description,' Spock pointed out.

'That's true – but you can't rely on a human description for complete accuracy.'

'Christine,' Spock said firmly. 'I did not come here to discuss adaptation techniques. I came to offer my apologies to you. Do I have your forgiveness?'

'Of course you do, Mr Spock,' she said immediately, the warmth in her tone telling him that she was sincere. 'I know how hard this is for you.'

'Thank you,' he nodded. 'Now, perhaps – ' He stopped, noticing the soft sound of fabric as she shifted position, and then recalling the loose, silken feeling of her sleeve under his hand as she had guided him across the room. He tilted his head sideways, saying, 'You are no longer in uniform.'

'Uh – no. No, Mr Spock, I'm not,' she stammered, suddenly sounding embarrassed. 'Since I wasn't really on duty, I thought I'd – '

'What are you wearing, Miss Chapel?' Spock asked curiously as she trailed off again.

'I was – er – I was about to take a shower when you buzzed,' she admitted. 'I just pulled on this dressing gown…'

'Oh,' Spock said softly. Had he been human, he might have blushed. For some reason not being able to see the one thin garment she was covered in made her seem all the more naked underneath.

He heard her stand up. He could almost feel the warmth of her embarrassment. 'I could change, if – '

'Your choice of dress has very little impact on me now,' Spock reminded her, aware of how close that was to a lie. 'Christine,' he said firmly, standing up as he sensed her moving, and reaching out to find her arm. 'Self-consciousness is quite illogical since I cannot – '

At that point he became suffused with embarrassment himself, however, as he realised that far from touching her arm, he had inadvertently brushed his fingertips across her breast. He stood frozen, acutely conscious of the sensation of her warm flesh and curiously hard nipple through the thin silky material that clung to it. Even through the silk he could feel her skin react to the touch, and the mental flush that accompanied it was almost overwhelming.

'I am sorry,' he murmured, but for some reason he still did not move his hand. The entire room seemed to be holding its breath. Then she made some kind of noise that was not a word, and almost sounded like a sigh of pleasure. Driven by an impulse worlds away from his logical training, he moved his fingertips, lightly investigating the warm curve beneath them. As he felt to the left his fingers slipped over hem, and then onto the flat naked skin between the two sides of the robe.

'Mr Spock…' she said, putting her hand over his, but not trying to remove it.

'Do not say that you do not desire this,' he said in a hoarse voice. He could feel her own desire sparking in her mind. He was suddenly consumed with hunger to touch her, to take her in his arms and envelop her with his body. 'I know that you do.'

'But *_you*_ never have, until now,' she protested.

'I *_have*_ desired, Christine,' he whispered. 'Please believe me, I have desired…'

'But now…'

'It would be both illogical and dishonest to pretend that my blindness has had no effect on my present feelings,' he said softly. All the varied stresses of the past week had conspired to wear away at his control, bringing emotions both good and bad closer to the surface. 'I have often felt – isolated – on this ship, among this human crew. But I have never – ' He shook his head. 'Forgive me. I am not practised at expressing feelings like this.' He drew in a breath, then said, 'I have never felt such utter, bewildering solitude as I felt when I realised I could not hope to recover my sight. I have – no one – to turn to.'

'The captain, Dr McCoy…'

He raised an eyebrow, a fleeting look of amusement crossing his face at the idea of Captain Kirk being supplanted in place of her.

'Are not you,' he said simply. 'They are – not *_you*_, Christine.'

He moved his fingers upwards, finding the contours of her collarbones and neck, and then the graceful line of her jaw. Despite her obvious misgivings, he could easily sense her deep desire for him to keep touching her. He stroked across her face, tracing out her eyebrows and cheekbones, running his fingers lightly over her lips. He moved his hands gently into the hair about her face and about her neck.

'I find myself wondering what you must look like in the morning, before your hair is styled and your face made up,' he said softly, running a finger down the side of her face.

'Oh, you wouldn't want to – ' she began, then broke off in confusion.

'I would *_very much*_ like to see it,' he said earnestly.

As she registered the depth of longing in his voice she touched a hand to his cheek, her simple urge to bring him comfort pushing her misgivings aside.

'As long as you're sure,' she said, almost in a whisper. 'As long as you mean it, and you understand that I'm not responding out of pity, or obligation, or anything else – but just because I love you, and I've loved you for such a long time.'

'I understand,' he nodded.

'And you *_will*_ see,' she promised him. 'You know that Dr McCoy and the captain won't stop until they've found a way to make you see. I won't stop – and I hope you won't either. You _*will_* see.'

Spock pressed his lips together, unwilling to voice his misgivings about the likelihood of that statement coming true. 'Perhaps,' he nodded, forcing himself to suppress the negative emotions surrounding his blindness in favour of the very positive emotions he was feeling in relation to the woman in front of him. 'But – for now I will have to rely on my imagination.'

******

Afterwards, they lay in silence for a long while, until Spock realised that the warmth and sense of contentment was lulling him into sleep. He stirred himself, finally moving away from her and turning onto his side.

'Do you wish to cleanse yourself?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said, but he could hear a level of uncertainty in her voice.

'What is wrong?'

'I – guess you'll want to go now – get back to your duties,' she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

'I do not have any pressing duties at this time,' Spock said instantly, before registering the emotional overtones of what she had said. He reached out to touch her face, allowing a smile to touch the edges of his mouth. 'Christine, I did not do this merely to satisfy my lust, and then move on. I do not intend to leave this room now and forget what we have just shared.'

'Then – '

'I do not suggest we move directly into a long term relationship bound by contract, but – I would be very content if we were to continue in this vein – in private, at least. Now – I believe I will need your help to locate what I need in the bathroom. Would you assist me?'

'Of course I will, Mr Spock,' she said in a voice rich with happiness, reaching out to his hand as he stood. 'Come with me and I'll show you where things are. Do you want a shower, or will the washbasin do?' she asked as they moved into the bathroom.

'The basin will be sufficient,' he said, moving towards where he expected it to be.

'Here's a cloth, and some soap,' she told him. 'Towels are on the rail just below the counter to your right. I'm going to pop in the shower.'

'Since that was your intent when I arrived and interrupted you,' Spock said with a look of muted amusement on his face.

He washed himself briefly, listening to the noises of Christine in the shower, then found his own way back into her quarters, grateful that he was alone so that he could manage to do what he wished without anyone watching his uncertain movements. He found the cooking alcove and felt carefully on the shelves above for cups and a teapot. Then he held the water heater beneath the dispenser, hooking one finger over the edge to feel when the water neared the top. There were a number of tins at the back of the cooking area, and by sniffing and carefully touching the contents he found one containing what seemed to be Earl Grey tea, and put two spoonfuls in the teapot. The water had just boiled when he heard Christine reenter the room, a warm, moist aura of evaporating shower water and scented soap surrounding her movements.

'You made tea!' she said, coming up behind him.

'I am attempting to make tea,' he corrected her. 'Perhaps you could help me by pouring the water into the pot?'

'Just pour it in at a regular speed, and count as you do it,' she said. 'I'll tell you when to stop. It's the same regulation issue pot as you have in your quarters, so all you need to do next time is count to the same number at the same pace.'

'Ingeniously simple,' Spock nodded.

'You might want to put this on first,' she told him, putting a heavy towelling garment into his hands. 'It's a bath robe. I think it should fit.'

'Thank you,' he said, putting the robe on and tying the belt around his waist. He resisted the urge to ask what colour it was – it was largely irrelevant, and he would have to get used to not knowing such details. He picked up the water heater, carefully putting the spout to the top of the teapot. He began to pour, counting aloud slowly and steadily as he did.

'Stop,' she told him, just as he reached seven, and he set the container down. 'Now pour it into the cups with the same system,' she said when the liquid had brewed. She watched as he counted, telling him when to stop with the first mug, and letting him judge for himself with the second. 'There. If you need to work it out for anything else, just do it with cold water first so you can feel when it reaches the top. Shall I carry them over to the table?'

'It seems best,' Spock nodded. 'I am not familiar enough with the layout of your quarters to be confident carrying them.'

'I'll put them on the side table between the armchairs,' she said, moving across the room and putting them down.

'Thank you,' he nodded. He began to move cautiously towards where he remembered the chairs to be, holding his hand out before him and keeping to the right so he could pass around them – but before he reached them his fingers encountered something near the side of the room that felt like piano keys.

'You have a piano?' he asked, depressing one of the keys and hearing a note resonate through the room. 'I did not know you played?'

'I was brought up in a wealthy New England family of doctors,' she said wryly. 'Playing the piano was obligatory. It's a keyboard really – an electronic synthesis of my piano back on earth. I don't have room for anything more in my quarters.'

'May I?' Spock asked, feeling for the stool and seating himself on it.

'I didn't know *_you*_ played.'

'My mother taught me,' he said, letting his hands move delicately up and down the keys without depressing them. 'But I do not often have access to a piano.'

'Well, you're very welcome to use mine, if you – can you play from memory?'

'I have always been able to,' Spock nodded. 'Although it is a long time since I have had access to a piano.'

He sifted through the memories of music in his head, and picked something to play. He began hesitantly, but the more he played the more he realised that not seeing the keyboard made no difference to his playing – if anything the darkness around him enhanced his appreciation of what he was hearing. The mathematical complexities and emotional overtones of the piece flowed through and around him, until he was almost unaware of not being alone in the room.

He finished the piece, and laid his hands in his lap, pulling himself back to reality. Music had always acted almost like meditation to him – it did not control his emotions in the same way, but it seemed to centre and calm him, drawing him away from the irritations and difficulties of everyday life until they ceased to matter. And of course, it had the secondary benefit of giving gratification to those around him. He could sense the pleasure that his playing had given emanating from Christine.

'I am grateful that there is at least one thing that isn't too affected by my blindness,' he said, standing up and stowing the stool carefully back under the keyboard. 'Now – I imagine my drink has become cold.'

'It's not too bad,' she said, touching his arm. 'Here. Sit down, and I'll pass it.'

'You say your family is from New England,' Spock said as he sat. 'My mother is also from that area – Boston, in fact. I have visited family there on a number of occasions.'

'Human family,' she mused.

'Yes,' Spock nodded. 'To say that they regard me as an oddity is an understatement. I do believe that some of them do not think I am truly related to them. My cousins are more accepting – after all, we are all virtually the same age – but I cannot say the same for my aunts and uncles.'

Christine smiled at the image of Spock sitting in the middle of a very human family gathering, pondering on the rationality of pastimes such as dancing or blowing out candles on a cake.

'I cannot imagine what they would make of me in my present condition,' he continued. 'My grandparents would welcome me, but they are of a considerable age, and the others…' He shook his head. 'I believe they already consider my mother mad for marrying a Vulcan man. If I called upon them to help me in my present situation…'

'You shouldn't need to,' Christine told him firmly, touching his knee with her hand. 'Really, you're perfectly capable of living an independent life. And if you did need help, surely your parents would be willing?'

Spock shook his head, a slight tightening around his lips speaking of repressed tension. 'My relationship with my father is – problematic at best,' he said. 'He – disagreed with my choice of career. I have not spoken to him in quite some time.'

'Well, surely this transcends a disagreement about Starfleet,' Christine protested. 'Surely?'

Spock sighed, clasping his hands together in his lap. 'My disability is a direct result of my career in Starfleet. I cannot turn to my father now. I can hardly turn to Vulcan. If Command does not allow me to keep my position, then I will go to Earth – Boston or San Francisco. There are at least some places that are familiar to me there. I could perhaps employ help at first. I – suppose a disability pension would allow me that…'

'You wouldn't need help – you'd have me,' she said firmly.

Spock raised an eyebrow. 'You would give up your medical career to aid me?'

'You forget I gave up my medical career – my *_doctor's*_ career – to join the _Enterprise_, Mr Spock. Returning to Earth would give me a chance to finish my training. But anyway, this is all completely hypothetical. You don't know what Command might decide yet. You have a whole month before you have to even begin to prove you can do your job.'

'That is true,' Spock nodded. He moved his bare feet on the floor, feeling the carpet under his toes. It seemed thicker than the carpet in his quarters – perhaps another touch from home. 'Since I have that long, perhaps I should put aside such concerns for tonight. I think, perhaps, we should eat, and talk, and then return to your bed and – perhaps – sleep.'

'That sounds like a very good idea, Mr Spock.'

******

Spock snapped his eyes open at the first wail of the siren, momentarily disoriented until he remembered where he was. He could feel the warmth of another body close next to him, one hand lying on his chest, and another curled warmly over his hip, and could tell that she was awake too. The red alert light was pulsing in the darkness, making his vision lighten to a dim red each time it came on.

'I'll find your clothes,' she said crisply before he could ask her.

He nodded, grateful at her immediate assumption that he would be going to duty stations, or at least going to find out what had happened, rather than trying to persuade him of the many reasons why he should not.

'Christine – ' he said, catching her arm as she began to get up.

'Yes?'

He sat up beside her, stroking his hand down the smoothness of her arm. 'I – find this exceedingly pleasant,' he said carefully.

'I'm glad,' she said. He could hear the smile in her voice. His vision brightened as she pressed the manual light switch by the bed. 'So do I. Now – that's your underpants, and your trousers, both right side out,' she said, pressing them into his hands. 'I'll go find the rest of your clothes.'

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, carefully working out the correct orientation of his clothes before slipping them on. He forced himself to push aside the uncertainty he felt at sitting blind in surroundings he knew so little about – or, at least, he pushed aside the frustration – he could do little about the uncertainty. He stood up, reaching out to the room divider he assumed was in front of him. The fact that it was precisely where he had expected helped to alleviate his insecurity a little – but the anonymous objects his fingers touched on the shelf below reminded him just how little he knew about this room. He moved very carefully around the divider, meeting Christine as she came back with his clothes.

'Your undershirt,' she said, putting it into his hands, helping him as he donned first that and then his blue uniform shirt. 'Here. Boots and socks. You look just fine,' she told him as he tugged his top down to straighten it.

'Can you accompany me to the bridge?'

'I can accompany you to the elevator. I'm not dressed for appearing on the bridge.'

'That is as much as I need,' Spock nodded. 'Thank you.'

'Besides, tongues might wag,' she said cynically as she hurried with him to the door.

'That is beyond doubt,' he nodded.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

'Report,' Spock said briskly as he stepped onto the bridge. He was not certain of who *_was*_ there, but he was sure that the captain was not as yet. 'Shut that alarm off,' he snapped. It was too difficult to hear what was around him with that noise whooping in his ears. The noise died away, and he let out breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

'A ship's left the planet's surface, sir, heading out of system,' came the reply from the helmsman's station. It wasn't a voice he immediately recognised – he rarely came into contact with the night crew.

'Specify,' he said, moving forward carefully towards the steps down to the captain's chair, trying not to look too uncertain. He sensed a ripple of surprise about him as he moved, as if the bridge crew had assumed he had recovered his sight, and had suddenly realised their mistake. Nobody seemed to have the nerve to offer him help.

'Azura class, capable of Warp 6, equipped with ship-to-ship photon torpedoes,' the helmsman replied. There was puzzlement evident in his voice, although he said nothing directly about the First Officer's condition.

'We detect nine people on board, sir,' a softer female voice chimed in from the science station. 'Some are possibly children.'

'And the alien creatures?' Spock asked. He reached the captain's chair, sensing from the weight of its swing when he touched it that it was occupied. 'Thank you, Commander - ' He hesitated, uncertain of who he was attempting to relieve.

'Lieutenant Commander Paul, sir,' the man replied, getting out of the chair after a moment's hesitation. 'Sir, are you able to - '

'I am quite able, thank you,' Spock nodded, cutting him off.

'There are a number of alien creatures on board,' the woman at the science station said as he sat. 'They don't register as normal lifeforms so they're hard to count – but they're there for sure, sir.'

'Sir, with all due respect, I don't think I should give up command to a blind man,' Paul said awkwardly, not moving from his position beside the chair.

'You already have, Commander,' Spock said flatly, without turning his head. 'Stay where you are, if you wish. Advise me. But while the captain is absent you will take *_my*_ orders.'

'Yes, sir,' he said in a rather abashed tone. 'I had to raise my concerns, sir.'

'I understand,' Spock nodded stiffly, trying not to let his pride interfere with his knowledge that in Paul's place he would have precisely the same worries – and would probably have absolutely refused to relinquish command. 'Helm, will the vessel submit to a tractor beam?'

'Only for a few minutes at most, sir,' the helmsman said.

'That is enough. Use it, immediately.'

'Beam on, sir. They're fighting, but it's holding for now.'

'I understand the cargo bay has been transformed into a secure holding area?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Does the Denevan ship have shields raised?'

'They keep flicking on and off, sir,' the science officer told him. 'It's almost as if they can't make up their minds.'

'Someone is fighting the aliens' influence,' Spock said grimly. He understood only too well the pain that that person must be going through. 'If they keep fighting, they will die. As soon as the shields are dropped, beam the ship's occupants to the cargo bay. Communications, warn medical staff and security to be on hand. As soon as they are clear of the ship the aliens will have no way of controlling it. At that point we can - '

'Beaming now, sir,' the science officer cut across.

'Excellent. Helm, set our course directly towards the sun. As soon as we are within viable range, use the tractor beam as a sling to hurl that ship into the sun.'

'En route now, sir.'

'There's a glow from the port nacelle,' Paul suddenly cut in. 'Where the tractor beam's exerting the most stress.'

'Describe,' Spock snapped urgently, turning his head towards the commander.

'Pale green, brightening to white at the centre.'

Spock closed his eyes, tightening his hands on the arms of the chair. The need to see was overwhelming. 'Helm, are we within range of the sun?'

'Just about, sir.'

'Then release that ship, *_now*_, and retreat. Raise shields.'

The sound of buttons hurriedly being pressed and commands given was acknowledgement enough for his order. A moment later the ship rocked with the force of the explosion, setting off alarm chimes all about the bridge.

'Mute those alarms,' Spock said, trying to keep his voice level. 'Damage reports?'

'Nothing as yet, sir,' came the reply from communications. He could just hear the digitised voices of crewmembers checking in from all decks of the ship, presumably through the officer's earpiece. 'No injuries, no hull damage.'

'The ship's destroyed,' the science officer put in. 'No signs of the aliens surviving. The explosion and the light together must have done for them.'

'The tractor beam must have set off a phase explosion,' Spock explained, registering Paul's unspoken puzzlement at his side.

'I've – never seen one, sir,' he said, sounding shaken.

'Occasionally the frequency of the tractor beam can cause a cascade reaction in the warp nacelle. The green tone of the light emitted is a major indicator. If you had not noticed and reported it, we may have been subject to the same reaction due to feedback through the tractor beam.'

'And if you hadn't recognised it for what it was, sir,' Paul said in a hollow tone.

'Then we may agree that we were both necessary during this emergency, Mr Paul,' Spock nodded. He turned swiftly as the turbolift doors opened, and he sensed the presence of Kirk entering the bridge. 'Captain,' he said in a level tone.

He sensed Kirk's surprise, but the captain was tactful enough not to voice it.

'Damn turbolift malfunctioned,' he said tersely, jumping the steps to the well in the centre of the bridge. 'I was stuck between decks three and two for a full five minutes. What happened?'

'A ship left the planet's surface. It has been destroyed, and the crew beamed aboard the _Enterprise_,' Spock said succinctly.

'I felt the turbulence.'

'Yes. The resonance of the tractor beam set off a phase explosion within the warp nacelle of the ship.'

'If Commander Spock hadn't recognised it it would've taken us out too, sir,' Paul put in. 'We released the ship into the sun just in time.'

'Report from the cargo bay, sir,' the communications officer cut in. 'The crew have been treated, and are recovering. Five adults, a teenager, and three children below the age of ten. Doctor says the littlest ones were close to death when they received them.'

Spock heard the captain exhale in a mixture of relief and awe. 'Well,' Kirk said slowly. 'Want to come down and see how they're getting on, Commander Spock?'

'Of course, Captain,' Spock nodded, getting to his feet. 'Mr Paul, you have command.'

He followed Kirk to the turbolift, concentrating hard on his movements so as to avoid being seen clutching his arm for guidance. The space around him narrowed, and he heard the lift doors close behind them.

'Cargo deck,' Kirk ordered. 'You did well, Spock,' he said as the lift moved off.

'I did what I was required to do,' Spock countered. 'I was the first senior officer on the bridge.'

'Yes – and you did well,' Kirk repeated. 'But – ' he began awkwardly after a moment.

'Yes, sir?' Spock asked.

'I – shouldn't condone you taking command in – well, in your condition,' Kirk said softly. 'You're not technically fit for duty.'

'However, I did adequately perform my duty,' Spock pointed out, although a dark disappointment had settled over him at Kirk's words. He *_knew*_ that he was not fully competent on the bridge, but knowing that was not the same as hearing someone else say it.

'Yes, I know,' Kirk told him. 'And I trust you, Spock – I'd trust you with my life, blind or not. But 430 crewmembers are a different matter. I have to answer to Command for their safety.'

'I – thought you believed me capable of functioning as your First Officer,' Spock said slowly. 'You said so yourself.'

'Yes, I know – and I believe that you will be capable,' Kirk said gently, reaching out to stop the lift for a moment. He knew that there was a wealth of insecurity and stiffly held pride distorting the Vulcan's judgement at the moment. 'But – not yet, Spock. Just – not yet. You need time to adapt, and you need Command's backing.'

'Of course,' Spock said flatly.

'I want you to be involved, Spock. I want you to keep on advising me and attending briefings, but the bridge is just – '

'Then am I to understand that I am not permitted on the bridge?' Spock asked, clenching his hands together behind his back.

'No, Spock,' Kirk said, touching his arm. 'No, I'm not banning you from the bridge. But – I can't let you take command up there – not just yet. I'd get roasted if anything happened. You do understand?' he asked carefully.

'Yes, Jim, I do,' Spock said quietly. He understood perfectly. He even agreed with Kirk's logic and reasoning – but still, he could not help the feeling of uselessness that overcame him at Kirk's words.

'I – hate saying it to you, Spock,' Kirk said awkwardly. 'I'm so sorry.'

'There is no need for apology,' Spock said flatly. 'You are the captain of this ship. Your responsibility to the ship and crew must come ahead of your personal feelings.'

'Maybe, but I don't have to like it,' Kirk said in a low voice.

'There is very little to like about this situation,' Spock said in a similar tone.

'No. Well – we need to get to the cargo bay,' Kirk said, changing the subject before things became too negative. He released the button, allowing the lift to move on. 'Here,' he said as the lift doors opened. 'We're on the cargo deck.'

Spock made to leave the lift, but touched his hand to his hip as he did with a distracted, 'Oh – '

'What is it, Spock?' Kirk asked him.

'I – have forgotten the cane,' he said, soundly oddly reluctant to admit to it. 'I did not bring it with me when the alarm went off.'

'Where did you leave it?' Kirk asked casually. 'I'll get someone to fetch it for you.'

'Oh, no, that's not necessary,' Spock said quickly. 'I can get it myself.'

'It's crazy for you to walk through the whole ship to get it. I can page someone nearby to bring it down.'

'It – is in private quarters, Captain,' Spock said even more reluctantly.

'Oh,' Kirk said, his voice sharpened with sudden interest. 'Whose quarters, Spock? I'm guessing not yours?'

'No, not mine,' Spock replied. Kirk had the distinct feeling that if he could see he would be deliberately avoiding Kirk's eyes. 'It doesn't matter. I can manage without it.'

'Spock, would the quarters belong to Christine Chapel?' Kirk asked slyly.

Spock cleared his throat. 'Yes. I – visited Nurse Chapel's quarters earlier to – discuss a matter with her. I clearly recall putting the cane down beside my chair, but I neglected to pick it up when the alarm went off.'

'Mr Spock, it's three in the morning,' the captain pointed out.

'Yes, Captain,' Spock replied, looking disconcerted.

'Spock – you do know what you're doing, don't you?' Kirk asked awkwardly. There was something about the Vulcan's bearing that suggested he had done far more than simply discuss something with the nurse.

The Vulcan stiffened with sudden annoyance. 'Captain, when I lost my sight I did not simultaneously lose my reason, as both you and the doctor appear to believe. I am quite capable of conducting my own affairs without consultation – with either of you.'

'It's just a little human concern for a friend, Spock,' Kirk told him softly. 'For *_both*_ of you. You're in a difficult place at the moment.'

'I am well aware of that, Captain,' Spock said stiffly. 'I am bombarded with constant reminders of the fact.'

'You can't blame us for caring, Spock,' Kirk said in a faintly hurt tone.

'I do not,' Spock said, sounding suddenly tired. 'I'm sorry, Jim. I do not mean to be unappreciative of your friendship.' He reached out for Kirk's arm, finding it after a brief moment. 'We were en route to the cargo bay, were we not? Since I am without the cane – for whatever reason that may be – perhaps you would be kind enough to assist me?'

******

The noises in the cargo room were disparate and widespread, echoing off walls and metal containers and combining to create a dissonance that confused Spock's senses. He could not quite bring himself to let go of Kirk's arm – he could not be sure enough of discerning his footsteps and movements from all the others around. The noises of instruments working and people talking and children crying were just too much to separate and locate.

'Captain…' he began uncertainly. He could not help flinching momentarily as he heard the distinctive whine of the light beginning in a treatment chamber.

'You okay with this, Spock?' Kirk asked in concern, noticing his reaction.

'Of course, Captain,' he said, reasserting his control. 'Can you describe the scene?'

'There's a woman just gone into the treatment chamber. I think she's the last. Two other women, and two men – all thirties to forties, I'd guess. A teenaged boy, maybe fifteen, and three little kids – aged about six to eight. Some of them are in a bad way – one of the women and both men are on gurneys. Two of the kids are too, but the teenager and one of the little girls seem fine.'

'It sounds – chaotic.'

'It is, what with people and medical equipment and containers everywhere. I wouldn't advise walking around on your own.'

'Medical personnel?'

'Five nurses, Dr McCoy, and Dr Phillips. Bones,' he called, raising his voice. 'How are they doing?'

'Not bad, thanks to Spock,' McCoy said gruffly, coming over to them. 'Two of the kids are quite weak, but they're not in danger now. They essentially need rest and some good nutrition. I don't think being occupied by one of those parasites makes you think much about taking care of yourself.'

'It does not,' Spock said earnestly. 'I do not believe I would have eaten at all in the past week without external prompting.'

'You wouldn't eat half the time anyway without external prompting,' McCoy grumbled. 'Oh – ' he said, as there was a flurry of running feet, and something suddenly barrelled headlong into Spock's legs. Spock stumbled backwards, then recovered his balance.

'Hey, there. Careful!' Kirk said, with perhaps more of an edge in his voice than normal. Spock could hear that his voice was tilted downwards – he guessed towards the one child who was not unwell.

'Sorry! Sorry,' Spock heard a small female voice say breathlessly, then, 'What's wrong with that man, mummy?' and a woman's voice in an undertone saying, 'Shh, Emmie.'

'But, mummy, what's *_wrong*_ with him?' she insisted. 'Why's his eyes funny?'

'I am blind. I cannot see,' Spock said flatly, struck by the fact that that was the first time he had described himself in such a way to a stranger. A dull sense of acceptance seemed to come down over him. It was a feeling that descended at intervals, and then was pushed away again by one of the stronger negative emotions Christine had listed – but it was coming to him more and more.

'Why?'

Spock hesitated, then decided the truth was the simplest explanation. 'I was infected by the parasite on Deneva. I was the test subject for the treatment in its early stages. The light blinded me.'

'Why?' the little girl said, unfazed by his explanation.

'Because we had not refined the type of radiation needed to kill the creature,' Spock said.

'Why?'

Spock sighed. 'It does not matter why. That is what happened. That is the end of it.'

There was a long silence, then she said, 'How do you do stuff without seeing?'

'With difficulty.'

'Does it make you sad?'

Spock closed his eyes briefly. 'It does not make me happy. Captain, may I be excused?' he asked.

'Of course,' Kirk said softly, registering his discomfort. 'Excuse me,' he nodded to the woman in front of them, then turned with Spock towards the door. 'Do you want me to take you back to your quarters?' he asked in an undertone. 'I need to stay on duty down here, but I can take a few minutes.'

'Just to the elevator, please, Jim. I can manage from there.'

******

He made his way not to his own quarters, but to Chapel's. He pressed the doorchime and waited pensively, hoping that she would hear the noise. There was no logical reason why he required company – but he felt an overwhelming urge to not be alone. His sense of being adrift and helpless in the confusion in the cargo bay had taken him by surprise, and he had a strong desire to be anchored to another person, in quiet and calm.

He heard the faint sound of movement from within, and then the door slid open.

'Come on in,' she said, sounding as if she had just woken from sleep. He imagined her standing there with that silken dressing gown on, her hair tousled from her pillow. He could smell and feel the warmth of bed radiating from her body.

'I did not mean to disturb you,' he said apologetically, following her in through the door. 'But I left the cane here…'

'Oh,' she said, sounding faintly disappointed. 'Then you wanted to get back to your rooms?'

'I do not,' Spock said honestly, shaking his head. 'I wanted to lie with you in your bed, and wake up with your arms about me, as I did when the red alert sounded.'

She took him into her arms, giving him the hug that he seemed to need. He could feel her surprised joy at his statement, and wondered how long it would take before she stopped being surprised by his desire to be with her.

'Were you all right on the bridge?' she asked, releasing him from the hug. 'You managed?'

'I managed surprisingly well,' he said. 'But – I am tired. I am still recovering from the past week – and it is astonishingly tiring doing everything in the dark.'

'Emotionally as well as physically, I'm guessing,' she said softly.

'Yes,' he admitted. 'Emotionally as well.'

'Care to talk about it?' she asked.

Spock shook his head. 'I – am not sure what to say – except that perhaps I thought if I tried to continue as normal I would be able to manage, and – I am learning that that is patently untrue. There are *_so*_ many things that I cannot manage and I – don't know how I am to overcome that problem…'

She hugged him again, stroking his back with her hand.

'Come on,' she said softly. 'Come to bed, and sleep, and – '

'It will seem better in the morning?' he asked with his eyebrow cocked. 'That is what my mother would say – but I am inclined to believe that it will not be.'

'Well, we can do what we can to make it so,' she promised him.

'Will you make me able to see this – or this?' he asked, tracing his hand first over her hair and then down her cheek.

'No,' she said honestly. 'But I will do what I can to make it easier for you.'

He nodded silently, following her guiding hand to her bed, trying to push away the dark, dispirited feelings that were crowding into his mind and threatening to take over. She was right – he had to sleep, and treat tomorrow as a new day. He lay down beside her, letting his face touch her hair, smelling the scent of it and feeling its softness across his cheek and mouth. He eased his hand over her body and found hers, exploring the feeling of her long fingers and perfectly manicured nails, before simply wrapping his fingers around hers and letting himself drift back into sleep.

******

Christine left him in the morning outside his quarters with a promise to visit later in the day, or at least in the evening if the daytime proved impossible. Spock entered his room suddenly feeling very alone after the closeness of the previous night. He could still smell the scent of her on him, still feel the slight pressure of her hand on his as she said goodbye, trying to show affection that would not be evident to other eyes. But even the assurance of Christine's visit made him feel somewhat like a patient in a hospital. Now, alone, doubts began to crowd over him about the logic of spending so much time with someone who made everything so much easier for him. She had made him breakfast, helped him in the bathroom, helped him to dress, walked with him back to his rooms to make the journey easier. Alone, he felt incapable again.

But no. He shook his head, trying to separate rational opinions from the creeping insecurities that were masquerading as logic. With everything Christine had done for him, she had tried her utmost to help him learn to manage for himself. She had not strictly made him breakfast – she had gone through the replicator discs she possessed and given him the one he needed, and turned it to the right orientation for the slot. In the bathroom she had guided his hands when he needed it, but left him alone when he didn't. She had organised his clothes only because she was at risk of running late, and walked with him back to his quarters guiding him with nothing more than her voice and her footsteps.

But still, here he was, alone in his quarters again, with little that he could do to occupy himself, when there was so much that needed doing. The ship _*needed_* its First Officer. Although… It was true that the ship seemed to be managing without him. He was not, perhaps, indispensable. He was certainly not irreplaceable. There were plenty of people capable of being the _Enterprise_'s First Officer, and plenty capable of being its Science Officer. Was it his own vanity that made him think he could not leave the ship – or was it just his own fear…

Spock clenched and unclenched his fists. He had not moved from where he stood just inside the door for the past five minutes. It was senseless to simply stand here, as if the lack of sight meant that he could not even move. It was obvious that the dark, listless cloud that had begun to descend last night was still hanging over him, and sitting alone in his quarters did not seem the best way to dispel it.

He moved over to the intercom and opened a channel.

'Spock to Dr McCoy.'

'McCoy here,' the doctor replied in a tense-sounding voice. 'What did you want, Mr Spock?'

'I assumed you would want to check my eyes again, and I would like to discuss adaptations to the lab equipment with you,' Spock replied, keeping the traces of his depression out of his voice. 'When would you prefer that I come?'

There was a pause, then McCoy said, 'I've had a hell of a night, Spock, with those people from the ship you destroyed. I'm still looking after them now. I don't have time for your check this morning. Can you come see me later?'

'Yes… Yes, of course,' Spock said flatly, the emptiness flooding back into his voice. 'Thank you, Doctor.'

He flicked the intercom off, and sat for a moment in stillness. No matter how little logic there was behind the feeling, he held a small hope with every check that the doctor would discover some way to restore his sight. He tried to suppress his feeling of disappointment, and turned his attention back to the Braille cards that Christine had laboriously prepared for him. It was becoming slowly easier to distinguish the difference between letters, but it was still a tedious, frustrating process, having to teach himself such a simple thing as reading. The pressure of the month he had to adapt enough to convince Command to let him keep his job was constant in the back of his mind. He was not even sure if *_he*_ was convinced that he could do his job, let alone convincing a group of humans millions of miles away.

Finally he gave up and pushed the cards away. He wanted to *_do*_ something – to do something purposeful and useful. He considered going down to engineering to see how the satellite production was progressing – the last update had put completion at 1100 hours. He pushed the intercom button again and called up engineering, but Mr Scott sounded so harassed and busy that it seemed unwise to complicate things with a visit. His experience in the cargo bay last night made him highly unwilling to enter the cavernous chaos of engineering when there would be no one with the time to assist him.

He sat back and closed his eyes. He was not on duty. He was not needed. There was no logical reason for him to visit engineering, or to be on the bridge, or to be anywhere but his quarters. He reached down to his left to find his lyre leaning against the wall, and began to pick out a melody.

Time passed, and he suddenly became aware that his intercom was beeping softly. He reached out and pressed the button, saying rather irritably, 'Yes?'

'Spock?' McCoy's voice replied. 'Are you all right? I've been trying to call you on and off for the past half hour.'

Spock clenched his fingers over the neck of the lyre, and then relaxed them slowly. 'I was occupied, Doctor. What did you want?'

'I wanted to apologise for not having the time to see you. I know it's important – but I have patients here who need urgent care.' Yet again, there was a world of guilt in McCoy's tone. How long would it be before his two best friends could talk to him without that undercurrent of guilt?

'Yes, I understand that, Doctor,' Spock nodded. 'My case is not an urgent one.'

'Can you come later in the afternoon? I promise I'll make time for you.'

'Doctor, we have already covered this,' Spock pointed out.

'Yes, I know. I just wanted to check you were all right.'

'I am fine,' Spock said firmly. 'But I wish to rest. I am going to silence my intercom for now, Doctor. Since I am on sick leave there is no need for me to be on call.'

'Okay, Spock,' McCoy said reluctantly. 'I'll let Jim know. Sleep well.'

'Thank you, Doctor,' Spock said shortly, flicking the intercom off. He pressed the small button beside it that silenced the call sound, and put his lyre back down on the floor. He moved to his bed, but he had very little intention of sleeping. He felt weary and depressed rather than drowsy. He lay down on the mattress, letting his gaze fall on the indistinct, dim throbbing of the light from his meditation statue – but even that seemed a mockery of what his eyes should see. He turned over onto his side and hunched his knees up towards his chest, closing his eyes and waiting for something to change.

******

He must have drifted into sleep, and then into dreams, because the next thing he was aware of was the paralysing agony of the creature all through his body, cinching on every nerve, and of desperately trying to navigate a ship he could not see to try to get away from the pain. He woke with a scream in his throat, choking on it before it could become sound, and lay gasping in air, trying to reassert calm in his turbulent mind. The panic slowly drifted away, to be replaced by the dull nothingness again, and he lay still on his bed, pinned to the mattress by the knowledge that there was little else to do in his condition.

Then eventually he became aware of a change in the light again. It was something like the pulsing of his meditation statue – but he knew he could no longer see his meditation statue's light so brightly, and it was coming from the other side of his bed. He realised gradually that it must be the silenced intercom flashing. He uncurled himself stiffly, and reached out his hand to the button.

'Spock here,' he said flatly.

'Spock. I guess you've turned your intercom back on now?' McCoy's voice asked.

'It is still silent. The flashing disturbed me. I can just perceive the light from it.'

'Oh. Well, anyway, Jim wanted me to let you know – they've deployed the satellites, and your arrangement worked. The creatures are dead.'

'I am gratified.'

'Spock, are you sure you're all right?' McCoy asked carefully.

'Apart from the obvious, I am quite well.'

'Well, I've got a lull in sickbay right now – they're doing exhaustive scans of the planet before beaming anyone up, to be sure that the creatures are all gone. I can do your eye exam, if you're ready?'

'I will be there as soon as possible,' Spock said, his tone a very little brighter than before. 'Thank you, Doctor.'

******

McCoy cut the channel on the intercom, glancing up as he did to see Kirk coming in through the door to his office.

'Spock?' Kirk asked, nodding towards the speaker. 'I thought I heard his voice.'

'Mmmm,' McCoy said pensively, drumming his fingers on the desktop. 'That's not a happy Vulcan, Jim. It's worrying at the best of times when he withdraws into his cabin – and this is certainly *_not*_ the best of times.'

'No,' Kirk said concisely, sitting down in the chair opposite the doctor. He looked up, meeting McCoy's eyes with a piercing look. 'What about *_you*_, Bones?' he asked. 'You just closed out on me on the intercom. I told you it wasn't your fault. You obviously don't believe that.'

'I'm the CMO of this ship, Jim,' McCoy retorted. Anger had suddenly blazed in his eyes, pushing aside the pensive exhaustion, but it was obvious it was anger only at himself. 'Spock wasn't capable of making a rational decision – I should've seen that, no matter how much he protested he was in control. You _*can't*_ be in control when you're in that much pain. He couldn't've spared a moment of that Vulcan discipline to analyse his choices, against controlling that agony.'

'You saw a way to cure him – and you cured him,' Kirk reminded him. 'That's your job, Bones.'

'You don't cure an ingrown toenail by cutting off the toe, Jim!' McCoy blazed. 'I should've looked at all the alternatives. I'm not a barber-surgeon from the dark ages – I'm a scientist, just as much as Spock is.'

Kirk sat in silence, staring at the doctor's face. It was hard to know what to say to alleviate that kind of guilt, when he felt the same degree of guilt himself, for many of the same reasons. They had all panicked. They had all seen a terrible threat to Spock, to a million people on Deneva. They had seen the parasite kill its victim with pain itself. All he had wanted to do, all McCoy had wanted to do, all _*Spock_* had wanted to do – was to stop that pain, the instant that they had found a way to do so. Christine Chapel had been the only person who had stuck to her duties, continuing resolutely to analyse the data as a scientist should, until the full conclusion was reached. It suddenly struck him that he should offer her a commendation for that diligence against what must have been overwhelming worry for the person she loved.

'It's done now, Bones,' he said finally. He didn't know what else to say against the doctor's fury – in part because he knew that he was right. 'We need to focus on picking up the pieces now. We need to do everything we can for Spock. I'm not going to see him shipped off to a desk job somewhere in Starfleet command. We're going to do *_everything*_ we can to try to fix this, whether that's by helping him adapt or by getting him his sight back. I don't care how much time and money has to be thrown at this thing.'

'Getting him his sight back,' McCoy murmured, looking at his own hands as if he doubted their ability to do such a thing. 'All the authorities on the subject say it's impossible.'

'Bones, how many authorities _*are_* there on half-human half-Vulcan hybrid physiology?' Kirk asked pointedly. 'Apart from _*you_*, that is?'

'Hmm,' McCoy said darkly, still staring at his hands. 'Well, that's an ongoing process, anyway,' he shrugged. 'I'm spending any time I can on trying to work out what to do to fix this, but it's not going to happen quickly. We need to work out what we can do for him _*right now_*. Palliative care, Jim. Rehabilitation, counselling…'

'He seems to be managing quite well physically,' Kirk said 'But *_he*_ doesn't think he's managing well. And you're right – he is taking it hard. That's obvious, no matter how much he protests logic and emotional control.'

'I'm just so worried about him, Jim,' McCoy admitted. 'He's in an emotional turmoil he can't express, he's cut off from his normal activities, he's the most independent person on the ship being forced to depend on others for the most basic things. I'm worried he's going to slip into depression, and I just don't know how to deal with a Vulcan's mental instability.'

'Does *_anyone*_, Bones?' Kirk asked with half a smile.

'Well, I don't know about that,' McCoy admitted. 'But I know that the topic of half-Vulcan, half-humans who suddenly lose their sight never cropped up in medical school.'

'What about this thing between him and Christine Chapel?' Kirk asked, scratching a fingernail on the desk before him. 'What do you think about that?'

McCoy shrugged, shaking his head. 'I don't know, Jim. I'm an old country doctor. I'm not a relationship counsellor.'

Kirk leaned back in his chair, regarding McCoy with narrowed eyes. 'Go on – as an old country doctor, as Spock's friend – what do you think?'

McCoy sighed, glancing at the door as if to check they would not be overheard. 'Well, there's always been *_something*_ between them,' he said. 'No matter how hard Spock tries to deny it, I've seen the way he looks at her when he thinks no one else is watching. Hell, he was practically buoyant when she decided to stay on the ship after that Roger Korby thing.'

'You're not worried he's just turning to her for comfort?' Kirk asked in a tone of concern.

'Maybe he is,' McCoy shrugged. 'But, God knows, he needs someone to give him comfort. He's suffered the kind of prolonged pain that'd drive any normal man mad – and now he's blind. His entire life's just been turned upsidedown. But if I know Spock, I doubt he's anything but serious about this. Maybe this was just the catalyst – made him see things in a different light – if you pardon the pun. And she's done a lot for him over the last few days to help him adapt. The quicker he starts to lead a more normal life again the better.'

'Yes,' Kirk said slowly. 'Getting him mobile and independent – that needs to be our priority too. We can just leave it up to Nurse Chapel. Do you have what he needs on the ship, Bones?'

McCoy shook his head. 'We've got hardly any of the devices he needs, Jim. It's crazy,' he muttered. 'We're just not set up for this kind of thing – and we should be.'

'Bones, you can't be set up for every eventuality,' Kirk protested. 'When was the last time anyone was blinded on this ship?'

He shook his head morosely. 'Apart from small, temporary problems – never, in all my years of duty. But we don't have *_anything*_, Jim. Christine had to get the workshops to handmake him a cane. Scotty's jury rigging equipment for him. He needs access to his computer, he needs a speaking clock, he needs a Braille label-maker, a printer, a keyboard. Anything he uses with visual readouts needs to be converted to audio output. If Command let him stay in his job we should put Braille signs over all the written ones on the ship, there should be tactile strips at doorways and intersections. His bridge station and the command chair need conversions. And now he wants equipment so he can work in the lab. I don't have time for all this now, Jim,' he said in a strained voice, meeting Kirk's eyes. 'There's too much to organise. There're bodies unburied down there, with all the attending health hazards, people with pre-existing conditions exacerbated by the parasites, orphaned children, malnutrition, contaminated drinking water... I've got an entire planet's medical welfare to think about…'

'Then may I suggest that you first treat the planet's doctors and nurses?' a sonorous voice asked from behind him.

McCoy jumped, spinning round in his chair to see Spock standing just inside the doorway. 'Good God, Spock, don't do that. I didn't know you were there.'

'I am sorry I was not making more noise with the cane,' Spock said somewhat morosely. 'I regret that I am such a burden, Doctor. Would you prefer that I sit in my quarters drafting my resignation letter? Unfortunately I would have to request assistance, since I cannot use my computer.'

'Spock, I didn't mean you were being a burden,' McCoy said tiredly, rubbing a hand over his forehead. 'You caught the bad end of a bad conversation. I've just got so much to sort out at the moment, and I don't want you to suffer because of it. I'm – well, I guess I'm feeling guilty because I want to focus on giving you everything you need, and I just can't.'

'Because you do not have the resources to deal with the casualties on Deneva,' Spock pointed out. 'Doctor, Deneva has a relatively large population. Surely they have equipment for the blind?'

'Well, I guess they must…'

'Then as I suggested, can you not treat the planet's medical staff, get the hospitals back into operation, and perhaps also fulfil some of my needs with the help of those hospitals?'

McCoy sighed. 'If we can locate them, if enough of them are still alive.'

'I can use the communications system, Doctor,' Spock said, beginning to sound impatient. 'I am not occupied with anything else. I will do what I can to locate Denevan medical staff. I can also organise our security forces to rig up temporary stasis fields in public buildings and move the bodies into them until such a point as they can be identified and interred according to local custom. If you have not already organised it, of course, Jim,' he added.

'No – I came down here in part to get an idea from Bones about what needs to be done,' Kirk told him. 'Why don't you get on it, Spock, and report back to me when you've finished?'

'I will,' Spock nodded.

'Wait - let me check your eyes first,' McCoy reminded him. 'Jim, can you leave us to it?'

'Sure,' Kirk nodded, getting to his feet. He took a moment to touch Spock's arm warmly. 'Mr Spock, I want to see you in Rec Room 3 when you're finished. I'm missing our chess games.'

'Captain, I really don't think – ' Spock began.

'That can be an order if you want it to be,' Kirk said firmly. 'The captain of this ship needs to keep his mind stretched, and you're my most challenging opponent. My First Officer needs to keep his mind stretched, too, and I think following all the moves in your head will be a pretty good challenge.'

'Yes, I imagine so,' Spock nodded dubiously. 'I will be there, Captain, if you so order it.'

'Come through to the treatment room, Spock,' McCoy said as Kirk left, touching his arm lightly. Spock followed his touch, although the route to the treatment room was becoming all too familiar. 'I can tell you one thing that'll interest you,' the doctor said as he sat. 'I've been running some tests on those goggles, and do you know what would have happened if you'd worn them?'

Spock raised an eyebrow, shaking his head. 'I presume from your question that the result would have been somewhat unexpected?'

'Well, for a start, the light was bright enough that the goggles wouldn't have protected your eyes – it would have filtered in round the edges and through your tissues, and it probably would have left you just as blind.'

'Yes, I suspected that might have been the case,' Spock nodded thoughtfully.

'And secondly, the makeup of those goggles would have meant that once the light had penetrated them it would have reflected and magnified off the inside surface, and it could have physically burnt that whole area of your face. I – thought it might help a little to know that.'

'It is gratifying to know that at least that one decision was the right one,' Spock nodded. 'Even if it was made for misjudged reasons.'

'Oh, hell, that's Peter Kirk's alarm,' McCoy said abruptly, as an insistent beeping began from his office. 'Hold there, Spock. I'll be back as soon as possible. It's all right, Phillips, I'm going,' he added as footsteps jogged into the room.

'Want me to do this, Leonard?' asked the voice of the _Enterprise_'s second doctor.

There was a brief hesitation, then McCoy said, 'Do the scans. I'll come back and analyse the results.'

'Well, Commander Spock,' Dr Phillips said as McCoy disappeared, coming further into the room. He was a tall, imposing man, and Spock was suddenly struck by how even his footsteps sounded hard and brusque. 'Let's get this over with. I'm sure you want to get back to your quarters.'

'I am desirous of resuming my work, Doctor,' Spock corrected him, curiously nettled by his assumption.

'Of course. I'll just dim the lights… There. Now, can you open your eyes wide for me please?'

'Have you positioned the optical scanner?' Spock asked curiously. He had not noticed it being moved into position.

'Just want to do some preliminary checks first.'

Spock flinched as there was a sudden increase in the light levels very close to his eyes. Perhaps it was to do with the burning inside his eyes, but the sudden brightness was painful to him. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness soothe the pain away.

'Your pupils are reacting to the light, Commander,' the doctor said suspiciously. 'You say you can't see anything?'

Spock sighed. 'I take it you have not read my notes, Doctor.'

'You were supposedly blinded by a burst of very bright light. You shouldn't have any light perception. Commander, you had a highly stressful week before this incident. Has Dr McCoy discussed the possibility of psychological causes of blindness?'

Spock stiffened, then pursed his lips together, beginning to get to his feet.

'Commander, I'm not finished yet,' the doctor protested, catching hold of his arm as he stood.

'Release me, Doctor,' Spock said icily. 'If you cannot be bothered to read my notes before you see me, I see little reason to continue this consultation. I am blind because my inner eyelids have malfunctioned – hence my small degree of light perception. If you had even glanced at my notes you would know that. I will wait until Dr McCoy is free – or perhaps Nurse Chapel.'

'I'm not sure that Christine Chapel is qualified to give you an unbiased examination, Commander Spock,' the man said with a hint of mockery in his voice.

'On what do you base that opinion, Doctor?' Spock asked sharply.

'When a patient is seen leaving a medical officer's rooms at three in the morning, and that medical officer is wearing little more than an exceptionally short silk robe, I'd say that their medical judgement where that patient is concerned is liable to be less than reliable.'

'That's quite enough, Doctor,' McCoy's voice came crisply from the entrance to the ward. 'Commander Spock can't see because of damage to his inner eyelids, not because his optic nerves are shot – and I can't see what his personal relationships with any of my staff has to do with the examination of his eyes.'

There was a brief silence, then Dr Phillips said, 'Of course, Doctor. I apologise, Commander Spock.'

'I'll finish the examination,' McCoy continued. 'Thank you.'

'Is the Captain's nephew all right, Doctor?' Spock asked.

'He's fine.' He waited until Phillips had left the room, then came over to Spock, explaining, 'He'd been moving in his sleep, and he'd knocked one of the sensors off his forehead. That was all.'

'I take it you have treated him and killed the parasite?'

'Yes. He's not in such pain any more, at least. How a kid that age could stand it I don't know.'

'No,' Spock said in a rather hollow tone. 'Perhaps the creature did not exert such pressure on him – it may have considered him less useful. But even the smallest degree of that pain would have been agony to him. You say he is not *_in such pain*_?'

'He's still sore – strained muscles and joints, things like that. He's recovering. I've got him pretty well sedated with painkillers. He – knows his dad's dead, Spock. He doesn't know about his mom yet. I'm not looking forward to him waking up enough to be told that.'

'He at least has Jim here,' Spock pointed out. 'That may help him somewhat.'

'Yes,' McCoy said doubtfully. 'But still – his entire world's collapsed.'

Spock pressed his lips together, moving his hands on the cane he held as he sat back down on his chair. His situation was not identical, but he could sympathise well enough with the idea of adjusting to life-shattering change. McCoy seemed to realise that they were venturing into difficult territory.

'Well, I'll just have to deal with that when we come to it,' he said, sitting down in front of Spock. 'I'm sorry about Phillips, Spock. He's – got some issues with xenophobia. I need to sit him down and give him some boundaries – especially on how he deals with senior officers.'

'Yes, I am aware of Dr Phillips' propensity for prejudice,' Spock nodded. 'I try to avoid consultation with him.'

'How far did he get with your examination?'

'Not far at all. He shone a very bright light into my eyes, Doctor,' Spock told him. 'I found it – quite painful.'

'Let me have a look,' McCoy said. 'Can you bear with the pain?'

Spock nodded succinctly. 'It is bearable.'

'I take it he used this,' McCoy said. Spock raised an eyebrow.

'Doctor, I did not see what he used,' he said patiently.

'No, of course, I'm sorry. There's a high intensity torch on the table. Something we use for surgery to illuminate difficult places. It's far brighter than the normal light we use to check your eyes. I'm just going to shine it at your eyes, very quickly.'

Spock held still, resisting any reaction as the light flashed across his eyes.

'Well, your pupil response is sluggish and limited,' McCoy muttered, putting the torch down. 'I'm going to have a look with the optical torch now. It should be less painful.'

The light brightened again, and Spock stayed motionless as McCoy's fingers touched his skin, gently opening his eyes a little wider.

'Well, I can see what's happening. The damaged inner eyelids are holding your pupils more rigid than they should be, so they're not expanding and contracting as much or as quickly as they need to,' McCoy explained. 'They're quite dilated anyway because your eyes are struggling to get light in. You'll probably find that you have disproportionately worse light perception for a minute or so when it's darker, and that very bright lights will be painful to you. I don't think I need to use the scope, Spock. It's uncomfortable for you, and it won't tell me any more that I need to know.'

'You believe there is no change?' Spock asked.

'The optical torch registers the amount of light getting through. One point seven two percent. That's the same as the last two checks. It's possible that might increase a little as your eyes settle down – there's some swelling in the tissues because of the burning – but nowhere near enough for useful vision – I'm sorry.'

'I did not come here expecting anything, Doctor,' Spock said. 'Perhaps it is not necessary now to check my eyes every day?'

McCoy hesitated. 'I don't want to let you down on any changes that might occur at this early stage, Spock. I'd be happier if you came every day for this first week – at least until the swelling's subsided. Then we can review the schedule of checks.'

'Very well, Doctor,' Spock nodded.

'Spock, you and Christine – ' he began cautiously as he moved to put the instruments away.

'Yes, Doctor,' Spock said with an air of great patience.

'Was it true what Phillips was saying, about you leaving her room in the middle of the night?' he said, coming back to the Vulcan

'It was true,' Spock nodded, declining to expand on that information.

'You – er – should be careful, Spock,' he said awkwardly. 'You're a senior officer – and you know what the rumour mill's like on this ship. I'd guess that Phillips was already working from second-hand information – his quarters aren't anywhere near Christine's.'

'Yes, I know,' Spock nodded.

'I'm not going to harp on about this, but just – don't hurt her, will you?'

'Doctor, do you believe that I am likely to apply what emotion I do allow myself in a fickle manner?' Spock asked, standing up and extending his cane.

'No,' McCoy said slowly. 'But – Hell, Spock, I'm allowed to worry about my friends – especially at a time like this.'

'I appreciate your concern,' Spock said quietly. 'But it is unnecessary. Perhaps – you could allow yourself to be pleased, instead?'

'Spock, anything that's inclined to soften that lacquer you keep your heart in pleases me just fine,' McCoy smiled. 'Go on. I'll stop probing into your private life now. You were going to try to locate Denevan medical staff. You can use my computer, if you want. It's voice activated.'


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Spock discovered very quickly that using McCoy's computer was not nearly as easy as he had expected it to be, despite it being voice activated. Organising security personnel to rig up morgues was not difficult – it was simply a question of communicating what was needed to the chief security officer and leaving it to him. Finding a list of registered medical personnel on Deneva was also easy enough, but trying keep the list with all of its names and locations and varied communicator codes in his head by listening to the computer repeat it was far harder, and having the computer repeat the list constantly to be certain of the facts was tedious at best. Despite having an excellent memory he was used to remembering such things photographically rather than aurally, and he was having to learn new memory techniques as he worked. Not being able to note anything down for quick reference was almost infuriating. Then when he used the codes he remembered most had no reply, or were answered by totally unrelated people who had no idea of the whereabouts of the person he wanted, or even if they were dead or alive.

'Doctor, I don't believe I am best suited to this work,' he said eventually. He was tiring of having to ask McCoy for assistance each time he came into the office. 'Even with oral access, this computer is far from appropriate for my needs. Far too many of its workings rely on visual interface.'

'Here, have this. It's coffee,' McCoy said, putting a cup down on the desk.

'More coffee?' Spock asked with a raised eyebrow. McCoy had been plying him with coffee all afternoon. Spock wasn't sure if this was still misplaced guilt working, or if the doctor genuinely believed that he needed such a high caffeine intake.

'This is stop-working-and-drink-slowly coffee, instead of sip-as-you-work coffee,' the doctor qualified. 'I thought we could both do with a break.'

'You are correct, Doctor.' Spock reached out for the cup, and took a grateful sip.

'You know, you've done more than you think,' McCoy told him encouragingly, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen. 'You've consolidated and organised the list according to speciality and location, you've worked out who's missing, who's definitely dead, who's alive, who's alive but unwell.'

'Yes, I suppose I have,' Spock nodded. 'I instructed the computer to categorise as I worked. Ironically, I cannot see the list I have made.'

'Well, why don't you just send that list up to Uhura with an outline of what needs to be done, and let her finish off the organising? You've done the legwork. Things are about to kick off here in sickbay, casualty wise, so I won't be able to help you for a while, and I'll be needing my computer, too. You may as well go have that game of chess Jim wanted.'

'That seems eminently sensible, Doctor,' Spock said, turning back to the computer. 'If you could save the data for me?'

'Leave it to me,' McCoy nodded.

Spock responded with a swift nod of his own, although he had been oblivious to McCoy's. He drained his cup of coffee, then activated the intercom next to the computer and passed on his instructions to Uhura. Then he called up the captain.

'Ready for that game of chess now, Spock?' Kirk asked cheerily. A weight seemed to have lifted from him since the success of the satellites.

'Yes, sir,' Spock nodded. 'However, may I make one request?'

'Of course.'

'To play the game in your quarters, rather than in the recreation room. I do not wish to be on display, Jim.'

'That's fine. I'll see you there, Spock.'

******

'That – should – be checkmate,' Spock said with a note of query in his voice. He was sitting in Kirk's cabin with his eyes closed, visualising the board in front of him, seeing Kirk's hand moving the pieces for him.

'It is,' Kirk said. Spock heard the noise of the king being toppled over, and watched the king in his mind being pushed over by Kirk's hand. 'I'm impressed, Spock.'

'I am – pleased – that I am able to play,' Spock nodded. After two games, he had lost the first and won the second. He had followed almost every move – Kirk had only needed to correct him twice on the position of the pieces. 'However, I do find it taxing in my current condition.'

'Still feeling tired from this last week?' Kirk asked him.

'Tired enough to make this blindness more difficult. The blindness itself is tiring – or at least, constantly having to concentrate so hard on every little task is tiring.'

'You seem to be managing very well, Spock,' Kirk said in an encouraging tone. 'I know I couldn't do that well.'

Spock shook his head, a deeper tiredness seeming to creep across his face. 'You do not see me every minute of the day, Jim. I have barely touched on the activities necessary for life, let alone for my job. It is – *_extremely* _frustrating to have to ask for help simply to pick out one's clothes or toiletries, or to drop something on the floor and to have to spend ten full minutes searching for it when previously I would have been able to locate it instantly.'

'I – To tell you the truth, I can barely imagine it, Spock,' Kirk told him. More than that, he didn't _*want_* to imagine it. He barely wanted to imagine what it must be like for Spock, let alone for himself. He had not expected it to continue to be so difficult, seeing his intense, intelligent, capable First Officer so uncertain of every move.

Spock shook his head, then got to his feet. 'Excuse me, Captain,' he said, moving towards the bathroom door. 'I have drunk too much coffee today, I think…' He took a step towards Kirk's sleeping area, then hesitated, and asked, 'You have not rearranged your rooms since I last saw them?'

'I don't think I've rearranged them in months, Spock,' Kirk reassured him. 'You're quite safe – there's nothing between here and the door.'

Spock nodded, and walked to the bathroom door, trying to put the confidence that his path was clear into his gait. Kirk watched him disappear through the bathroom door – and then he heard a clatter, and heavy thud of someone falling.

He came running into the shared bathroom to see Spock sprawled on the floor, the low laundry basket they shared lying on its side beside him. He suffered a pang of guilt as he realised he had pulled it out earlier to put his dirty laundry in it and forgotten to push it back in, not even considering that Spock would not expect it to be there. It was on the side of the room nearest his door, not in Spock's normal passage into the room.

'Spock, are you hurt?' he asked.

Spock rose to his knees slowly, clenching his hand around his unextended cane. For a brief second anger flooded his emotionless face, and he threw the cane away from himself, so hard that a dent was left in the wall where it hit.

'I cannot do this,' he said suddenly, his voice shaking with uncontrolled anger. He raised his face in appeal to Kirk, and he saw a bruise developing on the underside of Spock's jaw. 'I cannot live like this, Jim, in this clumsy, helpless darkness. I don't know what to do…'

'Spock,' Kirk sighed, coming across the room to him and kneeling down before him. He pulled him forward into a hug, closing his arms firmly around Spock's shoulders.

'Make me see, Jim,' Spock whispered, pressing his face into Kirk's shoulder, his breath sinking hotly into the fabric of Kirk's top. 'You must – be able to…' He faltered off in the knowledge of the irrationality of what he was saying.

'Oh, Spock, I would if I could,' Kirk told him softly. 'I'd do anything to take away the pain you're in. I'm so sorry.'

'I don't know how to live like this,' Spock said plaintively, his voice shaking as the effort to control failed.

'It's all right, Spock. It's all right,' Kirk whispered. He deliberately restrained himself from telling the Vulcan that it was all right to cry, for fear that bringing it to his attention would make him stop. He simply held him tightly as almost silent sobs racked through him, his entire frame shaking with emotion. After a long while the sobs turned into breathy gasps for air, and finally Spock pulled himself away from Kirk's arms, trying desperately to compose his tear-streaked face into an emotionless mask.

'Better?' Kirk asked with a faint smile.

Spock did not reply. He got to his feet and painstakingly found his way over to the sink, where he bent to drink and rub water over his hot face. He felt for the towel and dried his face, putting it back meticulously neatly and exactly centred on the rail. Then he stood silently as if he did not know what to do next.

Kirk picked up Spock's fallen cane, then went and touched a hand to his arm.

'Come on, Spock,' he said softly. 'Come back into my quarters and sit down for a bit.'

'I do not need to sit,' Spock said blankly. 'I need to see.'

'I know,' Kirk nodded. 'But you can't, and I'm so sorry, but I can't do anything about it. But I can get you a drink and sit down and be with you, if that'll help.'

'I should not have allowed you to see me like that,' Spock said, shaking his head, but he followed Kirk's hand through into his rooms.

'Spock, I'm your closest friend,' Kirk said softly. 'I'm not going to think less of you for showing emotion in front of me, especially not after the hellish week you've had. Come on, sit down here – it's the armchair, not the desk chair. You look exhausted.'

Spock sat passively on the chair, staying motionless as Kirk left him, listening to the noises of glasses clinking against one another, and liquid pouring.

'Drink up,' Kirk urged him when he returned, putting a small, square glass into his hand. 'It's Romulan ale – I think you need it.'

'You are aware that this is contraband?' Spock asked automatically, putting the glass to his lips nevertheless. He closed his eyes as the liquid burned a fiery path down his throat, settling warmly in his stomach. Against all logic, the burning alcohol in his stomach made him feel a little better.

'Are you going to arrest me?' Kirk asked him playfully.

'That would leave Mr Scott in active command,' Spock said dubiously. 'And I have no doubt that he has the largest store of contraband alcohol on the ship.'

He finished the small measure of liquid, then leaned back tiredly into the chair, resting the glass on his thigh. 'Jim, I barely know what I am feeling at the moment,' he said wearily. He heard Kirk lean forward and pour another shot of ale into the glass, and thought briefly of protesting – but instead he took another mouthful, taking an unusual pleasure in the subtle numbness that settled through him on drinking it. 'Christine told me I may experience fear, anger and grief in varying degrees, but I can barely distinguish which is which.'

Kirk glanced at Spock swiftly, registering just how tired he must be to slip and use Nurse Chapel's first name not just to her, but in front of another person.

'Well, you know, the strangest thing about emotions is they don't follow rules,' he said. 'Maybe you're feeling all three, all mixed up together. I certainly saw a good mix of anger and grief back there. And I don't blame you, Spock. No one would. You've had a horrific, incredibly sudden change to your life. You've lost one of your most important senses. I'm constantly amazed by just how well you're managing.'

Spock closed his eyes, shaking his head. 'I am trying, very hard. But it seems that every time I overcome one obstacle, another one takes its place. I can barely imagine one day stepping back onto that bridge for a normal shift.'

'But you will,' Kirk promised, pushing aside all of his own lingering doubts to give Spock the reassurance he needed. 'I doubt when you first entered the Academy you could imagine being the First Officer of a starship – but you are now.'

'When I first entered the Academy – I did not imagine one day giving my sight for my duty,' Spock said quietly. 'I – find it hard to believe that I will never see again – and yet I find it equally hard to believe that I *_will*_ see. Will I never see your face again, Jim?'

There was a long silence. Spock waited, then asked carefully, 'Jim, are *_you*_ all right?' He could sense a wealth of heavy, churning emotion from the captain despite the optimism of his reassurance to Spock.

'This has been the most godawful week of my life, Spock,' Kirk said finally. 'Sam and Aurelan dead… To find him like that, just lying there… And Pete's left an orphan, and you – what we've done to you…' There was silence again, and he took in a breath that was shuddering with emotion. 'I went to see him in the morgue, Spock. He's – so perfect. There's not a mark on him. He looks like he could get up and walk. Except for that – stuff – inside him where we can't see, crippling him with pain until it killed him. He's – he was my big brother, Spock. He was the strong one, the one who always knew what to do. It's not meant to happen like this…'

'Things rarely happen as they are meant to,' Spock said sombrely, rotating his glass in his hands before taking another sip. 'Or at least, as our perceptions of an ordered, logical progression of life tell us they should.'

His words fell into silence again, and he reached forward, feeling for Kirk's shoulder. Beneath the silence he was just conscious of a raggedness in Kirk's breathing.

'Jim, *_you*_ are allowed to feel emotion too,' he said softly. 'You are not on the bridge. You are in your quarters. You do not have to play the captain before me.'

'I'm always the captain, Spock,' Kirk said bitterly. He swallowed a deep mouthful of his drink, then refilled the glasses again. 'It didn't matter when I was standing in Sam's living room looking down at his body. It didn't matter when Aurelan died. I'm not allowed to stop and mourn.'

'*_Jim*_,' Spock said firmly. 'Just now, here – you are. Please, trust me enough to let me see this – to let me help you.'

'I can't… I – ' Kirk faltered, and then Spock could hear a real, unrestrained weeping that was impossible to contain any longer. He felt for the sidetable but couldn't find it, so he carefully put his glass on the floor and leant forward, clasping Jim in a hug before he could think about the inappropriateness of the action. He could feel the sobs racking through Jim's body, tightening well-developed muscles to an almost painful hardness under his hands. He tried to project feelings of calm and control through his touch, soothing his friend as far as possible without initiating a full meld.

'Oh, dear God,' Kirk murmured finally. 'Look at us both! It's like an old-style soap opera. I'm sorry, Spock. I'm sorry to drop so much emotion on you.'

'You have suffered bereavement, coupled with great stress. It's to be expected.'

'Well…' Kirk murmured. He watched as Spock felt for his glass by the chair, then bent to pick it up for him. 'Here, Spock. Watch it – it's quite full.'

'Thank you, Jim,' Spock nodded, taking another sip. He wasn't accustomed to drinking so much at one time, but he felt that he needed it at the moment with the amount of unrestrained emotion in the room. 'What will happen to Peter?' he asked after another long period of silence.

'I – don't know,' Kirk sighed. 'Perhaps mom will be able to take him, but she's – she's not young any more, Spock. Technically I'm his legal guardian now – I'm his godfather, and Sam wanted me to take him if anything happened. But it's not like I can have him here on the ship with me.'

'You've said before that your brother had three sons?'

'Yeah, the other two are a lot older. One of them's at the Academy, the other one's studying for a degree in law. They – well, they're capable of taking him, but they're not really old enough. It's not fair to make them give up their education to support him…'

'Perhaps if you helped them, financially, they could take care of him while continuing their education?' Spock suggested. 'Presumably he will be at school for at least a proportion of the day.'

'Yeah, maybe,' Kirk nodded. 'But Deneva's his home, Spock. He's been here most his life. I don't know…'

'Peter himself may have an opinion, of course. And we have the time we are stationed here for you to decide.'

'Yes, that's one mercy,' Kirk nodded. 'Hell, he's not even gained consciousness yet. It's early days. I forget how little time's passed. You know, when I think about it, you've come on incredibly well with all your adaptation techniques. You've had hardly any time at all, Spock.'

Spock raised his eyebrows in a shrug. 'Perhaps. I am gaining an idea of what I can and cannot do. I am progressing with the Braille – although slowly. I have learnt a few small techniques for everyday tasks. As you have just seen, I perhaps need to adjust my ideas of where I do and do not need to use the cane. It – seems I cannot rely on familiarity. But I must find some way of interacting with the ship's computers if I am to convince Command that I can continue on board the _Enterprise_, in whatever capacity.'

'Maybe you could sit down with – No, you're the chief of computing, aren't you, Spock? I don't know my own ship's positions well enough.'

'Lieutenant Susannah Morrell is the day-to-day computer technician.'

'Well, you can sit down with her and sort out some adaptations. I doubt she's too occupied with the Deneva crisis.'

'She is also Chief of Supplies, and I imagine Supplies is rather overstretched at the moment,' Spock pointed out.

'Oh, well then, you should – Hell, Spock, I don't know who you should sit down with,' Kirk said with a sudden laugh. 'I have far too little idea of that department…'

'That is because computing is essentially my responsibility. Jim, are you quite all right?' Spock asked in concern.

'I'm a bit – ' Kirk paused, then said, 'Spock, do you know we've drunk almost an entire bottle of Romulan ale between us?'

'Ahh,' Spock replied. That would explain the odd, pervading numbness, the lack of balance and the curious difficulty he was having in control his inhibitions and responses. 'I didn't realise, without seeing it. You kept pouring…'

'Yes, I know – I usually rely on you to stop me.'

'I – do not wish to be inebriated, Jim. Not in my condition.'

'Well, it's a little late for that,' Kirk said honestly. 'Look, let's go down to sickbay and get an anti-alcohol shot from Bones. I really ought to be sober at the moment – I need to be on the bridge in ten minutes – and like you said, it's – well, it could be downright dangerous for you.'

******

'You two do know the alcohol content of Romulan ale?' McCoy asked critically as he released a hypo into Kirk's arm.

'Of course we do, Bones,' Kirk said impatiently. 'We just lost track, that's all.'

'You realise I'm not supposed to give out these shots like this – especially after the consumption of contraband alcohol,' McCoy continued to complain, preparing the hypo for another shot. 'There's a reason it's illegal. I should be reporting you to the Federation vice squad.'

'Bones, it's not as if you're whiter than white when it comes to alcohol,' Kirk protested. 'And I've got to go – I'm almost late for my shift.'

'Well, you should be fine now,' McCoy said. 'Just try to sit still for about ten minutes when you get to the bridge – and stay away from the blue stuff in future,' he called after him as he left the room.

'Doctor, I clearly recall a bottle of liquid of a light blue hue in the cabinet just behind you,' Spock said pointedly. He was sitting very still on his chair, unwilling to move as the effects of the alcohol took greater hold in his body. 'Am I to believe it is no longer there?'

There was a pause, then McCoy said grudgingly, 'Well, that's beside the point. This isn't the time to indulge in drinking sprees.'

'I am not descending into stress induced alcoholism, Doctor,' Spock said flatly. 'As the captain said, we simply lost track.'

'Perhaps,' McCoy said seriously, leaning on the edge of his desk in front of the Vulcan. 'But most Vulcans *_do*_ have addictive personalities, and I don't think you're any different. No, I know you don't go for drugs or alcohol or food,' he said as Spock began to protest. 'But you are addicted to routine, to work, to ritual. You're obsessive, no matter how much you try to control it. Hell, you're obsessive *_about*_ control.'

'I am *_in*_ control, Doctor,' Spock said firmly.

'You're half human, Spock,' McCoy pressed. 'Alcohol has more of an effect on you than it does pure Vulcans. Like I said, I'm not saying you've got a problem – not after one incident at a time of high stress. I'm just asking you to take care.'

'I always endeavour to take care, Doctor,' Spock said seriously.

'Well, I'll give you this,' he said, touching the hypo to Spock's arm. 'And I want you to go through to the ward and sit down there for ten minutes. I haven't had cause to use this on you before, so I'd like you to stay where there's help if you need it.'

'As you wish,' Spock nodded. He could already feel the sobering effects of the shot sinking through him like cold water. He felt almost disappointed as reality began to seep back.

'The end bed's empty – the one on the left. Now, I've got real emergencies to deal with. If you're fine after ten minutes you're free to leave.'

'Thank you, Doctor,' Spock nodded, moving to the door and finding he felt much steadier than before. He found the bed and sat down on it, waiting for the time to pass.

He had been sitting for about eight minutes when he heard noises of movement, and caught a sense of unshielded panic from the private room just off the ward where Peter Kirk was. He hesitated – but he knew that all the medical staff were busy, and Jim was occupied on his shift. He swiftly found his way into the little room, asking, 'Peter? Are you awake?'

There was hesitation, then a small voice said, 'Yes, sir,' almost in a whisper.

'You are on the _Enterprise_, Peter,' Spock said, moving towards the bed. 'You are quite safe.'

'Is – is that Uncle Jim's ship, sir?'

'Yes, it is,' Spock nodded. 'Peter, can you tell me if there is a chair near the bed?'

There was a pause again, then he said, 'Er – yes, over here.'

Spock closed his eyes briefly. 'Peter, I am blind. Can you tell me which side the chair is on?'

'Oh… It's – er – it's on the other side from you, up here by the pillows.'

'Thank you,' he said, moving round to the chair and sitting down. 'I am Mr Spock – I am your uncle's first officer.'

'Oh – Uncle Jim's best friend. You're the really, really clever one, aren't you?'

Spock raised an eyebrow. 'I am a Vulcan,' he said. 'There are certain mental advantages.'

'Can I call you Uncle Spock?' he asked.

Spock tilted his head. 'Factually inaccurate – but acceptable.'

'Why are you – ' The boy trailed off, but Spock knew what he had been about to ask.

'I was blinded in an accident, just a few days ago,' he said succinctly. 'Peter, you have been treated to remove the parasite that was causing you pain. The doctor tells me you should be fine now.'

'Is Uncle Jim helping my mom?'

Spock hesitated, touching the blanket with one hand, pondering on just what to say. Just for this moment he was thankful that he could not see, so he would not have to watch the boy's face as he told him.

'Peter – neither of your parents survived the parasites,' he said finally. 'We were too late for your father, and your mother died soon after we brought her to the ship.'

There was silence, but Spock could feel the crashing wave of distress provoked by his statement. His natural inclination was to slam down his mental shields against this torrent of emotion – to isolate himself and hope that someone more suited to the situation would intervene. But there was no one else. There was a small noise, like something being forced out through tightly closed lips – and then suddenly the boy was sobbing aloud. Spock reached out tentatively for the child's arm, and then suddenly he was holding the boy in his arms, hugging him tightly against his chest, and alarms were ringing as the sensors monitored the sudden change in the boy's readings. Spock was dimly aware of someone entering the room and then leaving again – and then a few minutes later someone else came running through the door.

'Spock, it's Jim,' Kirk said, touching his shoulder. 'I – guess he knows, then?'

'Yes. He asked me about his mother,' Spock said. He realised that he was stroking the boy's head with one hand, but he didn't dare stop for fear of increasing his distress.

Kirk came around in front of him, reaching out to the boy and murmuring, 'Pete, it's Uncle Jim. Come on. Come over to me now. I've got you…'

Spock released the child with some relief. He touched the front of his top, realising it was damp with tears. 'I – will leave you alone, Jim,' he said softly.

'Okay,' Kirk said, sounding slightly muffled. 'Thanks, Spock. You did well.'

Spock nodded, feeling about himself for his cane. He couldn't find it, and he was reluctant to disturb Jim by asking him to look, so he stood and made his way out into the ward. He stood for a moment by the wall, trying to recover his composure after such an overwhelming exposure to raw emotion, but he was aware that the ward was full of patients from the planet below, and the silent scrutiny he could feel was not pleasant to him. Then he felt another, more familiar mind.

'Mr Spock.' Christine's voice was warm with concern. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes, fine,' Spock nodded distractedly, aware that they were far from alone. 'Could you find my cane for me? I dropped it in young Peter Kirk's room, and I couldn't find it.'

'Of course. I'll be right back,' she said. 'Here,' she said on her return, putting it to his hand. 'It had rolled just under the bed.'

'Thank you,' he nodded, briefly touching her hand as he took the cane from her. It was most distracting that each time he touched her it only made him want to touch her more. 'Are you busy, Miss Chapel?' he asked carefully. 'Do you have a moment to help me?'

'I was just going off shift.' She paused as there was a flurry of movement in the ward. It sounded as if a patient was being brought into the room. 'Let's get out of the way,' she said, touching his arm. Spock followed her as she moved out of the room and into the corridor.

'What did you need?' she asked.

'You,' he said honestly, once he was sure they were alone. 'It has been a very long day.'

'My quarters or yours?'

'Mine,' Spock said firmly. 'I desire the familiarity. Would you guide me, Christine? It is easier than trying to follow your sounds.'

'Of course,' she said, letting him take her arm.

As soon as the door to his quarters closed behind them he let his shoulders relax, leaning into the hug she offered him.

'What did you want to do?' she asked him as she released him.

Spock sighed. 'First, to sit, and talk. Later I think it would be sensible to go to one of the recreation rooms. I have found myself reluctant to expose myself to the stares of others. It is a reluctance that I will have to overcome. I – wish to return to normal, as far as possible.'

'And – you don't mind being seen there with me?' she asked carefully.

'It is not in my nature to indulge in public displays of affection. But I would be quite content to be seen there with you.'

He knew she was smiling at that – he could feel the emotion around him like a burst of sunshine. He let the corners of his mouth twitch upward slightly.

'Do you want to have dinner in the rec room too?' she asked.

'No, I'm not hungry,' he said quickly, turning his head away.

'Spock, how many meals have you had in the past week?' she asked him pointedly.

He pressed his lips together, beginning to move towards his desk. 'Very few, I admit,' he said, reaching out a hand to find his chair.

'And you're not hungry?' she asked, following him across the room. 'You want to give your sight every chance you can, don't you? You must know how important protein is for repairing injuries?'

'I am too tired to be confident of eating neatly in front of people,' he admitted in a strained voice. 'To be honest, I do not find myself anxious to eat at all. I find it – extremely frustrating.'

'You've been doing so well, though,' she protested.

He sat, shaking his head. 'I have spilt food down my chin, down my front. I am not competent to eat in public.'

'That was *_one*_ incident last night,' she protested, kneeling down in front of him. 'You were eating tagliatelli with tomato sauce. *_Anyone*_ could have spilt that.'

'I fumble for my food, or push it off the plate while feeling for it. I have to ask you to cut it for me, or struggle to cut it myself by touch. I lift the fork to my mouth and find it empty, or find the piece I have cut hopelessly large…'

'It's practice,' she told him firmly. 'All you need is practice.'

'All I need is sight,' he said bitterly.

'Spock,' she said softly, wrapping his fingers in hers. His hand was shaking.

He pulled his hand away, clenched it into a fist, then seemed to come back to himself, reaching out again to hers.

'I – am sorry,' he murmured. 'As I said, it has been a very long day. I have been exposed to strong emotion on all sides. I am in need of calm, and quiet.'

'Do you want to be alone?'

'No,' he said firmly. 'But I need to meditate, very badly.' He frowned. 'I cannot use my meditation statue – the light is not bright enough for me to see it.'

'Can you imagine it? Visualise it?'

'I don't – ' He reached out suddenly to the intercom and pressed the button. The light flashed. He had not taken it off silence since that morning. He knew it was a fine, bright pulse of light, bright enough to garner the attention of someone who for any reason could not hear the chime – but in his eyes it had the soft, warm throb of his meditation statue. Then Lieutenant Uhura's voice broke into his thoughts, saying, 'Mr Spock? Uhura, here. Are you all right, Mr Spock?'

'I am quite fine,' he said. 'Lieutenant, can you leave a call open to my intercom? I require the light for my meditation.'

'Of course, sir,' she replied. 'Mr Spock, I'm so sorry about – '

'Thank you, Miss Uhura,' Spock said quickly, cutting her off. He did not feel that he could deal with any more emotional statements right now. 'I will be in the recreation room later, Lieutenant,' he added. 'I was planning on bringing my lyre. Perhaps I will see you there?'

'Oh, I'll be there,' she said warmly. 'I'll leave that channel open for you, Mr Spock. Uhura out.'

Spock released the button, and after a moment the light began flashing again. 'There,' he said, turning his head towards Christine. She had moved to sit in the chair on the other side of his desk. 'I can see that light well enough. Do you mind staying while I meditate?'

'No, not at all. May I read one of your books?'

'You may have them. They are of no use to me,' Spock said morosely, then he shook his head. 'I am sorry. I really *_do*_ need to meditate.'

'Well, I'll tell you what,' she said. 'How long do you need to meditate for?'

'Half an hour, at the least.'

'Well then, I'll slip off and think of something for us to have for dinner, and I'll come back in half an hour and wait for you to finish your meditation. How about that?'

Spock frowned slightly. 'Is this how it is to be? I tell you I do not wish to do something, and you decide I _must_ do it, and so proceed regardless?'

'When it involves your health and wellbeing, _yes_,' she said honestly.

Spock sighed. 'How like my mother.'

'Well, I'll take that as a compliment.' She bent to kiss him on the cheek before he could say anything more. 'I'll be back soon.'

******

Spock had a residual awareness of the door to his quarters opening again after half an hour had passed, but thankfully his meditation so far had been successful enough for him to be able to ignore the interruption and stay deep in his contemplation. He allowed himself time to parcel off his remaining emotional failings, and then slowly brought himself back to reality, becoming aware of the scent of Christine nearby before he was aware of her physical and mental presence.

'Better?' she asked softly as he unclasped his hands and turned towards her. He had had his fingers steepled in the meditation position despite being unable to see the point that they made.

'I believe so,' he nodded gravely, laying his palms down on the table. He sat in thought for a moment, then lifted his head and said, 'I must warn you, if you find me emotionally ungiving for the next few hours, it is because of my meditation has restored my control, not because a lack of those feelings.'

'I understand,' she said. 'Anyway, I brought dinner – something I thought would suit your needs at the moment.'

Spock raised an eyebrow quizzically. 'I assume you have the food under a cover. I cannot smell it.'

'It is. I did a bit of digging and found out it's the Time of Simplicity on Vulcan, when Surak retired free of possession into the desert for nine days to rediscover his own self.'

Spock nodded. 'That is true. I am ashamed to say it had quite slipped my mind. But what relevance – '

'It's traditional to eat simple foods at this time, without cutlery that could be construed as weapons.'

'Again, true,' Spock nodded.

'So,' she said, removing the lid from the tray. 'I bring you sushi – vegetarian for you, of course – and tempura vegetables. All food you can comfortably eat with your fingers – and it's not a capitulation,' she said quickly at the beginnings of a protest. 'It's just a good alternative for one night when you're tired. Will you eat it?'

'Of course. Thank you, Christine,' he said, reaching out to the plate and touching his fingers lightly to the food. It was a relief, he had to admit, to have food that he could touch and investigate rather than having to ask for a description. Chapel pushed something else over towards him.

'There's soy sauce and wasabi here if you want them, in two saucers to your left,' she said, 'and green tea to your right.'

Spock nodded, allowing himself the briefest of smiles. 'Thank you, Christine,' he said again.

'Are you sure you feel like going to the Rec Room?' she asked him as he began to eat.

Spock wiped his fingers on his napkin. 'I – do not enjoy being exposed to scrutiny in this condition – but that is why I *_must*_ go. I cannot act as if this is a temporary ailment. It is growing ever more likely that I will not regain my sight – and if that is the case, I will have to learn to manage in the necessities of everyday life.'

******

Spock felt the stir as they entered the Rec Room, and wondered how long it would be before he could walk into a room without this reaction of surprise and intrigue. Presumably there would be even more surprise and intrigue if those present suspected that he was touching Christine Chapel's arm as anything more than a nurse. He followed her across the room, calming the instinctive feeling of uncertainty at the large, noise-filled space.

'There's a chair here,' she said softly. 'Oh – and here's another technique I haven't taught you. I put my hand on the back, like this,' she said, reaching the arm he held out to the chair, 'and you slide your hand down it to find it.'

'I see,' Spock murmured, sliding his hand down to locate the chair and sit down in it. He rested his lyre on his knee, brushing his fingertips over the strings, and then setting to tuning it with great care.

'It's full tonight,' Christine said quietly. 'Quite a few crew, and some of those people you rescued last night.'

'I am sensing familiar minds,' Spock murmured. 'Some of the regular bridge crew, I think.'

'Yes, I think they're curious,' she said. 'Oh – Uhura and Scotty have just seen us – they're coming over.'

Spock could feel her smiling as footsteps approached, and had to fight to suppress a twinge of longing to see that smile that he knew would be lighting up her whole face. He stilled the strings of his lyre under his palm, turning his face to where he assumed the two officers were standing.

'Miss Uhura, Mr Scott,' he said in a level tone.

'We were wondering if these seats are free, Mr Spock,' Scotty said in an oddly gentle tone. 'The lassie here said you'd be playing tonight?'

'I was intending to,' Spock nodded, assuming Scott had been indicating Uhura. 'I assume there are free seats?' he asked, turning towards Chapel with a raised eyebrow.

'Yes, it's a table with six seats,' she told him.

'Ah – then you are quite welcome to sit,' Spock nodded, turning back to Uhura and Scott.

'Did you manage your meditation, Mr Spock?' Uhura asked, her voice coming down to his level as she sat opposite him.

'Yes – the light was very helpful,' Spock nodded. Nobody seemed to want to mention his blindness directly, although there was an unusual softness to both Uhura's and Scott's voices. All he wanted to do was to try to continue as if this was any other evening on the _Enterprise_, despite the fact that it obviously was not.

'Shall I get you a drink, Mr Spock? Ladies?' Scott asked.

'Thank you – I will have Assam – black,' Spock nodded, then turned his attention back to the tuning of his lyre. This, at least, was nothing that required sight, and took enough of his concentration to allow him to ignore the ripples of curiosity from the varied crew around him.

Finally Uhura's voice cut into his concentration. 'That sounds spot on, Mr Spock,' she said. 'And the natives are getting restless.'

'The natives, Miss Uhura?' Spock asked, raising his head.

'The crew are waiting for you to play, Mr Spock,' she clarified.

'Ahh,' Spock nodded, reaching out for the cup that he had heard Scott put down for him. He felt the heat before his fingers reached it, and he touched it briefly, memorising its location.

'Before you begin, Mr Spock – may I have a wee word about this Braille printer?' Scott asked him.

'Of course, Mr Scott,' Spock nodded gravely.

'I've been taking a look at some schematics. Now, there are printers for sighted people to use, and printers for – well, for blind people to use themselves. I've been assuming you'd want the second type?'

'You are correct,' Spock nodded.

'Aye – well, there're plenty of variations of those, too. Would ye be free to come down to engineering tomorrow and go over a few of the options with me?'

'Yes, of course,' Spock nodded. 'My schedule is remarkably clear at present, Mr Scott.'

'Aye,' Scott said awkwardly. 'Maybe we can look at some ways to display it on a screen, too,' he added after a pause. 'But that doesnae seem so easy. It beats me how ye can read those little dots with yer fingers, Mr Spock,' he said in an awed tone.

Spock paused for a moment, then nodded. 'Yes, the same thought occurs to me with startling frequency, Mr Scott.'

He felt a hand press reassuringly on his knee under the table, presumably hidden from sight. A warm mental surge of affection accompanied the touch, and he turned his head towards Christine. He didn't feel able to respond verbally, and certainly not with his expression, so instead he said, 'Nurse Chapel, would you pick a tune? Then I may play.'

'Oh – how about Siinak's Requiem?' she said after a moment of thought. 'Do you know that, Mr Spock?'

'Indeed,' Spock nodded, surprised that _*she_* knew the piece. 'I know it well.'

He touched his fingers to the strings, and began to play. As the music progressed he became aware of others joining their table – Kirk and McCoy, he was certain. When Kirk spoke in low tones to someone he knew he was correct, and he nodded in their direction.

'Captain, Doctor,' he said in a level tone, without pausing in his playing.

'Spock,' Kirk murmured, seating himself nearby.

He heard McCoy muttering something about *_Vulcan dirges_* as he sat, and raised his eyebrow minutely. It was true that this piece was somewhat sombre at the outset, but the music soon became soothing, and then ventured towards light-hearted. As he finished he exhaled slowly, recognising the wisdom of Christine's choice. The music had successfully lifted him from his own sombre mood into a more relaxed and peaceful one. It didn't even bother him when McCoy complained, 'Spock, can't you play something a little less – Vulcan?'

Spock paused, then moved his fingers over the lyre again, retuning it swiftly. He closed his eyes for a moment, then began to pick out a tune that was far brighter and rhythmical, much more like the music the humans favoured. When he finished and focussed his attention on the room around him again he realised that it had become almost entirely silent as people listened.

'I knew you had it in you, Spock,' McCoy said appreciatively. 'What was that?'

Spock stilled the final vibrations in the strings by lightly resting his palm across the face of the lyre. 'Something entirely more human, Doctor. A composition called China Cat Sunflower by a twentieth century group known as the Grateful Dead, I believe. I cannot claim to understand it, but it seems to work well with this particular instrument.'

'Well, it was very impressive,' a female voice said as someone approached the table.

Spock lifted his face towards the voice. It was not someone he recognised.

'Oh – Elena Shumaker,' she said, realising his difficulty, and he suddenly remembered her voice in the cargo bay last night, shushing the small girl. 'I came in off that ship last night. I just wanted to thank you, Commander. It was you in command when we were rescued, wasn't it?'

'It was,' Spock nodded. 'I was simply performing my duty.'

'Your duty saved our lives. And – it was you who tested the light treatment that cured us.'

Spock nodded again.

'Then we'd be dead if it wasn't for you, twice over. And you lost your sight for us.'

Spock pressed his lips together, unsure of what to say. The reasons for his sight loss were so complex. He had not even known of this woman's existence when it happened.

Then he felt someone small move forward to lean against his knee. He moved his hand to his lap, raising an eyebrow, and felt a small hand there.

'It's the little girl,' Christine said in an undertone. 'From that ship.'

'Yes, I gathered,' Spock nodded. 'I have the distinct impression that I am under scrutiny.'

'She _is_ staring at you.'

There was a movement, and there was a burst of discordant music at the same moment that he felt someone touching his lyre.

'Please, do not touch the lyre,' he said, putting his hand over hers and firmly removing it.

'What's wrong with your eyes?' she asked.

'I have already explained that to you,' he said. 'Emmie, would you like me to play a tune on the lyre?'

'No. … Yes,' she said abruptly. 'A nice tune. Thank you.'

'Very well.' He closed his eyes, touching the strings, and then to everyone's astonishment played a swift rendition of 'Pop Goes the Weasel.'

'Well, I guess your mother taught you that one,' McCoy commented.

'You are correct, Doctor.'

'Thank you, Commander,' Elena Shumaker said warmly. 'I keep telling her to stop asking people questions, but it doesn't do any good…'

'Asking questions is a good basis for an adult career,' Spock said, carefully readjusting his tuning.

'I – suppose it is,' she said, in a slightly embarrassed tone. 'Commander, if there's anything I can do to help – ' she continued.

'Are you an ophthalmologist, ma'am?' Spock asked quizzically, tilting his head up towards her voice.

'No – I'm an osteoarchaeologist.'

'Then there is very little you can do to help me,' he said, dropping his head again.

There was a loaded silence, then Kirk said awkwardly, 'Commander Spock doesn't mean to be rude. He's a Vulcan. They have a – unique – way of putting things sometimes.'

There was a silence again – and then the woman said uncertainly, 'Well, my husband's an exo-ophthalmologist. He's been studying differences in sight processes between alien species.'

Spock sat forward in his chair, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the neck of his lyre.

'Which alien species, ma'am?' McCoy asked, before Spock could speak.

'Most recently Andorians – there's a moderate Andorian community on Deneva. But he has covered Vulcans and Vulcanoids. He was fascinated by the atrophy of the inner eyelid in Romulans and Helkarians, when it's still so unaltered in Vulcans. But – if your optic nerves were burnt out by the light – '

'They were not,' Spock said tightly. 'My inner eyelid malfunctioned.'

'Oh…' she said softly. 'But – I don't know where my husband is, Commander. I – ' Her voice faltered for a moment, then she steadied it. 'I lost track of him a few weeks ago. I don't even know if – '

'What is his name, Ms Shumaker?' Spock asked crisply.

'Mark – Mark Helsand.'

Spock frowned. 'I have been attempting to identify and locate medical personnel on Deneva. I have not come across that name in my research.'

'Well, no,' she said. 'He's not allied with any hospitals on Deneva – he's only here because of my work. He's with the Royal College on Earth.'

Spock nodded pensively. 'Dr McCoy – ' he began.

'I'm already there, Spock,' McCoy said, pushing his chair back to stand. The slim disc with all of Spock's previous research on it was stored in the slot next to the computer on his desk. 'I'll go warm the computer up.'

'You could use my help, Doctor,' Uhura put in. 'I've gone through so many Denevan communicator codes today I'm going to see them in my dreams. I might be able to help you pinpoint the right places to look.'

'Ms Shumaker,' Spock said, getting to his feet. 'Would you accompany us to the sickbay? Perhaps you can help us define a locality for your husband.'

'Oh, of course,' she said eagerly.

Spock nodded, then realised that he was still holding his lyre. At the same moment Christine said, 'Let me take the lyre, Mr Spock. I'll put it in your quarters for you, then head back to sickbay to help.'

Spock nodded, passing the lyre over to her, managing to touch her hand just long enough to express his feeling of thanks. 'Captain, could you – ?' he asked, turning towards Kirk.

'Right here, Spock,' Kirk said, coming to his side and putting his arm to Spock's outstretched hand. It was surprising how quickly he was becoming used to guiding Spock, or watching for him as he followed without touching. He pressed his lips together at the thought. He didn't want to get used to these things – he just wanted Spock back as he had always been, with the piercing intelligence in his eyes and the certainty in everything he did.

******

'Does your husband has any distinguishing biological characteristics, Ms Shumaker?' Spock asked once they were gathered in McCoy's office. Kirk and Uhura had gone to a computer terminal in another room to try to track the man down through the Denevan communications system. Spock and McCoy were attacking the problem through science, trying to adjust the ship's scanners to pick up the readings for this one person in all of Deneva's population.

'Umm…' the woman hesitated.

'Does he have an unusual heartbeat, for example?' Spock continued. 'Is he fully human?'

'He – er,' she hesitated. 'He has Centauri on his grandfather's side. I don't know if that affects his heartbeat…'

'It might alter the beat,' McCoy supplied, 'but it depends on which traits he's inherited, and I wouldn't know that without a proper examination.'

'At which point we would have already found Dr Helsand,' Spock added.

'Mmm.' McCoy stood musing, until his eyes fell on the child who was standing shyly, half-hiding behind her mother's legs. 'Your little girl,' he began. 'Is she – ?'

He broke off awkwardly, but the woman glanced down at her daughter, and nodded, 'Oh, yes, she's Mark's.'

'Then it's possible she could present with any abnormalities that her father displays,' he murmured.

'What would you need to do to find out?' the woman asked anxiously. Spock turned toward her, curious at how much stronger his mental impressions of people were now he could not see their faces. Ms Shumaker's concern for her husband and now for her daughter felt almost like a web through the air, muffling his perception of the others in the room.

'Oh, just scan her with this,' McCoy said lightly, presumably holding up his handheld scanner. 'That'll tell us more than we need – more than could pick up of your husband's readings with the ship's searching scanners.'

'Then scan her,' Ms Shumaker said quickly. 'Emmie,' she began, trying to pry the child from behind her legs.

'Oh, she doesn't need to move,' McCoy said with his warmest Southern manner. Spock could hear that he was now crouching down. 'Just one little sweep – ' The scanner warbled for less than four seconds. ' – and we're done.'

He moved over to his desk and fed the data he had gathered into his computer.

'Hmmm,' he said, slipping his eyes over the result. 'A slight abnormality in the heartbeat, and temperature raised above Terran normal by about two degrees.'

'She's always been warm,' Ms Shumaker murmured. 'So's Mark.'

'Then he *_does*_ have distinguishing biological characteristics,' Spock said, rather impatiently.

'I suppose he does,' she nodded. 'I'm so used to it I don't think of it.'

Spock pressed his lips closed over a sigh, and then asked, 'By how much is your husband's temperature raised above human normal?'

'We'd only say he had a temperature if it went above a hundred and one,' she said after a moment's thought.

'Well, that's useful,' McCoy nodded, trying to be amicable in opposition to Spock's intolerant coldness. 'The heartbeat isn't so definite, though. It could have skipped a generation.'

'We must at least eliminate the possibility,' Spock said. He was beginning to feel distinctly useless again – he could do nothing physical to help with this problem. 'Doctor, you will need to recalibrate the searching scanners with those parameters in mind. Adjust for height and weight – Ms Shumaker, are you aware of your husband's height and weight?' he asked, with the faintest hint of sarcasm in his tone.

'Six foot three, and around two hundred and ten pounds,' she said quickly, addressing McCoy since he was the one entering the data into the computer.

'McCoy, have you finished recalibration?' Spock asked after less than thirty seconds, turning to where McCoy bent over the computer, frowning at the screen.

'Have some patience, Spock,' McCoy muttered, frustrated at his own slowness. 'I'm a doctor. I'm not a goddamn science officer.'

'No,' Spock said dryly, not turning to McCoy. 'But the ship's science officer is currently somewhat incapacitated.'.

'What happened to him?' Elena Shumaker asked, cautiously trying to dissolve some of the tension she could sense building between the two. 'Who is the science officer?'

Spock turned his expressionless face to her. 'I am,' he said, in an equally expressionless voice.

'Oh,' she said softly.

'I can be of no more use here. Would you excuse me?' Spock asked, turning without waiting for an answer, and finding his way out of the room.

There was a long moment of silence, then the woman turned to McCoy, and half-smiled. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't mean to offend him…'

'Oh, you didn't,' McCoy said tiredly. 'That was Spock's way of – expressing diplomacy. You see – ' and his voice changed, 'I threw the light that blinded him. He says he doesn't blame me – and I don't think he does blame me. It's not his way. But *_I*_ blame me…'

'You wouldn't be working so hard to find Mark if it wasn't for his work, would you?' Ms Shumaker asked softly.

After a moment's silence, McCoy shook his head. 'No – No, I can't say we would be. There are – or there were – a million people on Deneva to find and help. But if there's any hope – any hope at all – for Spock's sight, then we have to take it. I won't let him spend the rest of his life blind if there's a chance I can do _*something_* for him.'

'You're – friends with him, then?' she asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of her tone.

'He's one of the closest friends I've got,' McCoy admitted somewhat reluctantly, glancing at the door that Spock had passed through as if he was afraid he might be listening. 'Don't get him wrong, Ms Shumaker. He's stubborn, he adheres to logic to a fault, he professes to be unemotional at all times – but he's also loyal, unexpectedly compassionate, rediculously intelligent.'

'He doesn't seem…' she began, then trailed off, reluctant to start criticising someone that the doctor had just named as a close friend.

McCoy looked up at her swiftly, anger rising in his voice. 'Day before yesterday that man volunteered to test the treatment for the parasite that was putting him in agony. He'd pushed that pain down for days, and carried on working. Then he sat in that test cubicle while I burned the sight out of his eyes. I've had to tell him he'll probably never see again. He's the First Officer of this starship, and he'll never see again. Now we throw out the tiniest hope that we _*might*_ be able to do something to restore his sight. You'll have to forgive him for being a little on edge.'

'I – didn't mean to – ' she began, taking her daughter's hand as the little girl cuddled closer to her.

McCoy sighed. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to either. I'm – I'm _*very_* worried about him, Ms Shumaker. This is tearing him apart. And I'm almost as anxious as he is to restore what he's lost.'

'Yes, I'm sure you are,' she said with a wan smile. '_*You_* have to understand that _*I'm_* terribly worried about – ' She glanced down at her daughter, and smiled a false, cheery smile. 'Never mind. Let's get on with what we need to do. Are the scanners set up? How long will it take?'

McCoy raised his eyebrows. 'Going by averages, perhaps four, five days,' he said seriously.

'Oh,' she said in a tone of disappointment.

'I'll just leave it running,' he told her. 'The scanners just do a close sweep across the planet's surface – they'll alert me if they turn up anything within our parameters. But it's not a concrete thing.' He turned to the computer, altered a few settings, then turned back to the woman beside him. 'You may as well go back to your room for now – I guess this little girl needs to be in bed?'

'The checks the captain was doing?' she asked anxiously, glancing at the door.

'He'll let me know if he finds anything,' he reassured her. 'There's nothing you can do for now – go get some rest. Now, that's a medical order.'


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Spock lay in bed with the length of Christine's body touching his, in warm, secure comfort. But he felt very little like sleeping. He felt as if a war was setting up inside of him. Despite his meditation earlier he had snapped at Elena Shumaker, and walked out of McCoy's office to conceal his frustration. He had almost snapped at Kirk and Uhura when they had told him there was little chance of turning anything up through the communications system. His only recourse had been to come back to his cabin to gain some rest, and to try to gather back some control. He was angry at himself for his lack of control – and that was another failing.

'Spock,' Christine murmured beside him. It was obvious to her that he was not asleep.

'Yes,' he said sparsely, not turning his head. There was no need to turn his head towards someone he could not see. He needed to drop the affectations of a sighted person.

'I'd ask if you were all right,' she said. 'But you're not all right, are you?'

Spock bit his lip into his mouth in the darkness. It was as dark for her in his cabin as it was for him at the moment.

'No,' he said finally. 'I am – I'm having extreme difficulty – in controlling my feelings.'

Her hand moved up to his face, and stroked over the curve of his forehead, down his temple, and onto his jaw. Just that touch relaxed him minutely.

'I'm sorry,' she murmured, touching her lips to his cheek and stroking again with her hand. 'I wish I could help…'

'You do help,' Spock told her honestly, finally turning his head towards her. 'You ground me each time I lose touch. You lift me up each time I sink down. You _*do_* help.'

He could feel her smile as a warm blanket of emotion around him. Her hand stroked over his face again, but this time her fingers slipped down the tendons of his neck, and traced his collarbones and the sleek contours of his shoulders. He felt another degree of relaxation slip through his spine, vertebra by vertebra, as if someone was loosening a screw that had been tightened too far. He turned towards her and touched his fingertips to her face, letting his mind brush hers and taking in her warm, sleepy tranquillity and allowing it to soothe his own jagged thoughts. A smile flickered inside his head, although he did not let it reach his lips. Whether it was her smile or his he was experiencing, its very presence buoyed him.

He brushed his free hand over her torso, feeling the smooth curves of her breasts and the soft flatness of her stomach. There was something very human about the desire that was stirring in him despite his troubles – but perhaps there was something very Vulcan too. After all, he only fought so hard to control his emotions because unfettered those emotions flowed with such passion. He touched his lips to hers, and let his hand move lower still.

******

Spock woke still feeling the buoyancy that had finally taken hold the night before. At least this morning he woke expecting the blindness, and his morning routine was just a little easier than it had been the day before. Perhaps he was getting used to it – or perhaps, as Christine had warned him, this was just a slightly higher point in his confusion of emotion – especially after the horrendous low of the previous day. He suspected that the latter was more true, but he did not argue with it for now. Whether his positive mood lasted for days, hours, or mere minutes, at least he did feel more positive, just for this moment.

After Christine left for her duties he went to the captain's rooms, knowing that it was one of Kirk's rare scheduled days off. In this kind of crisis he imagined Jim would ignore the roster and go to his duties anyway, but he was hoping he could convince him to take at least that morning to himself. Kirk's minor breakdown yesterday had shown Spock clearly how much his captain needed some time to reconcile himself to his loss. He was obviously just in time to catch him, because he almost bumped into the captain just coming out of his door.

'Oh – Spock,' Kirk said quickly. He seemed to be in a hurry to go somewhere, but he stopped still to give Spock his full attention. 'How are you feeling this morning?'

Spock raised an eyebrow minutely. Jim was one of the few people who would ask him how he was _*feeling_*, and he was one of the few people that he felt he could answer honestly.

'At this point in time, better,' he said. 'Were you on your way somewhere, Jim? Are you intending to work?' he asked suspiciously.

Kirk gave a small laugh. 'Come to check up on me?' he asked. 'Isn't that a bit – sentimental, Spock?'

Spock raised an eyebrow. 'It is merely a logical concern that the captain of this ship takes the rest to which he is entitled, thus leaving him more able to attend to his scheduled duties.'

'Ah,' Kirk smiled. 'Well, you don't need to worry, Spock – I *_am_* taking my time off. In fact, I'll be beaming down to the planet in the next half hour, on personal business, not ship's. But that's not important, Spock – have you had any luck locating that ophthalmologist yet? We didn't get anywhere with communications – at least, not yet.'

Spock shook his head. 'I spoke to McCoy a few minutes ago. Nothing has been turned up as yet. It's likely to be a lengthy process. Scanning for one being on a planet the size of Deneva is extremely complex work. I can do nothing to help, since I cannot interpret the data that the scanners return.'

'Of course,' Kirk murmured, seeming to have an apology waiting to be said behind his words.

'Where were you going, Captain?' Spock asked curiously, partially to change the subject from the tired matter of guilt. 'You said you were beaming down – on personal business?'

'Oh, I'm going down to Sam's place later to sort out a little,' Kirk said, with what seemed like a rather false lightness in his tone. 'Grab some of Peter's things. You know.'

Spock nodded sombrely. 'Often it is best not to undergo such tasks alone,' he offered. 'I am quite willing to accompany you.'

'Spock, you don't want to sit around in Sam's house while I tidy up,' Kirk protested. 'You've got enough on your plate at the moment.'

'Ah yes,' Spock nodded. 'My daily medical check with Dr McCoy, and then the hours in my quarters contemplating my blindness, or teaching myself to read tactile writing.'

'Okay, point taken,' Kirk smiled. 'I'd welcome your company, Spock, if you're happy to come with me.'

'I am not being entirely selfless, Jim,' Spock pointed out. 'I would welcome the change of – of surroundings.' He had been going to say _scenery_, but could not ignore the current inaccuracy of that word where he was concerned.

'Well then,' Kirk told him. 'I'm ready, so you grab what you need and we'll get down there.'

'I already have what I need,' Spock said, lifting his cane off the floor. 'Since I have taken to carrying a communicator with me I have nothing else to go into my rooms for.'

******

Spock stumbled a little as the transporter beam loosened its grip, and he immediately felt Kirk's hand on his arm, steadying him.

'All right, Commander?' Kirk asked softly.

'Quite,' Spock nodded. 'It is simply a little unsettling to beam in without visual clues with which to orient oneself. Where are we, Jim?'

'Just outside Sam's place,' Kirk told him, looking about himself.

There was no longer the eerie tidy silence that had prevailed when they beamed down earlier. Many of the doors and windows in the area were now broken, with possessions pulled out onto the streets. Not far away he could hear shouting, and banging as if something was being beaten and wrenched open.

'It's a good thing we came now,' he muttered. 'I get the sense there's been some looting going on around here.'

'Disturbing how easily human society reverts to anarchy,' Spock murmured.

'Well, they've been through a lot, Spock,' Kirk countered. 'Don't judge the human race too harshly on this one scene.'

Spock turned blind eyes to him, one eyebrow raised slightly. Few hints of the chaos were reaching his senses – beyond the banging noise and human voices, he was simply aware of the hot scent of concrete in the sun, the damp smell of large areas of planting, and the small, quiet noises of wind touching obstacles in its path. They were all impressions he had barely noticed the last time he had beamed down in this place – now they seemed vitally important in his attempts to interpret his surroundings.

'Okay, point taken,' Kirk nodded. 'Come on, let's go inside.'

Spock stepped in through the door after Kirk, pulling an image into his mind of the place as he had last seen it in his eidetic memory. He realised that image may not be correct any more as Kirk breathed in through clenched teeth.

'Bastards,' he murmured under his breath.

'Jim?'

'They've been in here too. Trashed the place.'

'Can you see what has been taken?' Spock asked in concern.

'Umm…'

Spock heard Kirk moving through the room, pushing things aside with his feet that alternately clinked and scraped and shushed on the floor. Finally, he laughed softly. 'Food, Spock,' he told him. 'As far as I can see, nothing but food.'

'We cannot begrudge them that,' Spock nodded.

'Not really – but they could have left off from smashing things up. Well, I'm going to grab some things for Peter,' Kirk told him. 'Watch where you step – it's pretty chaotic in here.'

'Of course,' Spock nodded. He waited until Kirk had left the room, then stepped forward, probing ahead of him with the cane. The end touched many scattered objects that he pushed aside carefully with his feet. Then he touched something large and solid, and on feeling with his hands recognised the large yellow chair that had been sitting at the side of the room, now tossed onto its side. He knelt and made sure there was a clear space on the floor, then righted the chair carefully, and straightened the cushions. Then he turned to whatever else he found on the floor, carefully picking up smashed china and putting it on the kitchen worksurface, folding things that seemed to be clothes or other cloths, delicately feeling over things which seemed unbroken and finding spaces to put them safely together. He moved into the narrow kitchen area and began picking up more broken china, gathering it together and dropping it into the sink for want of a better place to put it. Then he felt a broom lying across the floor, and used it to pull anything else left down there into a pile at the side of the kitchen.

He heard footsteps tracking back into the room, and Kirk said in amazement, 'Spock! Thank you. It looks so much better.'

Spock turned to move out of the kitchen area. He heard Kirk call out just as his skull impacted with something at head height, and he stumbled backwards, pressing a hand to the sudden sharp pain in his forehead.

'It was a cupboard door left open,' Kirk muttered, catching hold of the Vulcan and steering him over to the chair he had righted earlier. 'You caught the corner.'

'The cane is not much use for such obstacles,' Spock said tightly, leaning back into the cushions.

'Let me see,' Kirk said, peeling Spock's hand away from his head gently. 'You're bleeding well,' he murmured. 'You're going to have one hell of a bump.'

Spock nodded, then regretted the action as his head throbbed. 'It frequently surprises me just how hard one can walk into something when one does not expect it to be there,' he said in a strained voice.

'Are you okay, Spock?' Kirk asked more gently. 'You don't want to beam up?'

'It is nothing more than a minor wound,' Spock told him. 'I suspect I will gain quite a few more like this before I am accustomed to blindness.'

'Well, stay there,' Kirk said, sounding uncomfortable again. 'Sam and Aurelan must have a first aid kit about here somewhere. They've got a kid, after all…' No, no _got_ – _had_, he corrected himself… He didn't think he could get used to the idea of referring to his brother and sister-in-law in the past tense.

'Jim - ' Spock pressed, cutting into his thoughts.

'Sorry, Spock. What?' he asked absently, realising Spock had been saying something in that soft, calm voice of his.

'May I suggest the bathroom?'

'Yes, of course… I'll go look.'

Kirk disappeared, then came back swiftly and knelt down before Spock. 'In the bathroom, just like you said. Hold still,' he said, spraying something cool onto the injury. 'Antiseptic and anaesthetic,' he explained before Spock asked. 'Just going to swab away some of this blood, then – There you go,' he said, pressing a dressing over the cut. 'You know, Spock, no matter how long I know you I don't think I'll ever get used to blood that colour. Do you want to come wash your hands? You've got quite a bit of blood on them.'

'Thank you,' Spock nodded, standing up to his guiding hand. He followed Kirk into the kitchen, hearing him close the offending cupboard door before he reached it.

'Here,' Kirk murmured, turning on the faucet. 'I can't see any soap, but water'll do.'

Spock reached out his hands to the sound, and the water enveloped them. He washed them thoroughly to be sure that all the blood had been cleaned away, then stood aside to let Kirk do the same.

'Jim, do you hear that?' he said suddenly as Kirk turned the faucet off and the last trickles of water drained away.

'What?' Kirk asked quickly.

'I am not sure. Something outside.'

'Stay there,' Kirk told him, and made for the door.

Spock ignored the instruction, reasoning that it had not been phrased as a direct order, and followed Kirk swiftly across the room. He felt his presence just outside the door, and came to stand next to him.

'What is it, Jim?' he asked in an undertone. 'I hear – people chanting?'

'There's a large group of people down in the concourse below. You remember, where those wide steps go down to?'

'Yes, I remember,' Spock nodded. 'Jim, do you have a phaser?'

It almost seemed like a premonition, because at that moment one of the people roared out, '_Starfleet_!' and suddenly Spock could hear dozens of feet making for them.

'Spock, go inside!' Kirk snapped, moving away from him. There was a clatter of something being thrown, a muffled cry, and Spock heard the ominous noise of something soft yet heavy falling to the ground. Simultaneously the crowd of footsteps stuttered to a halt.

'Jim?' he asked anxiously, stepping forward. There was no reply. 'Jim?'

He pulled out his communicator, only to have it struck painfully from his hand by another well aimed missile. The crowd had stopped some distance away – perhaps at the bottom of the stairs, presumably reasoning that they did not need to come any closer and risk a physical fight with a Vulcan.

'Jim?' he called out again, feeling forward with his cane. He felt terribly, horribly restricted. Kirk could be two metres away, or he could have slipped all the way to the bottom of the stairs. He felt a step in front of him, and moved down it cautiously. He could hear murmuring in the crowd, as if they were wondering why he was moving so oddly. Then, three steps down, his cane touched something soft, and he sat down on the stairs, reaching out for Kirk's body. He established that he was breathing and had a strong pulse, then moved his hands swiftly to his waistband. He could not feel the communicator, but his fingers slipped over the rounded, pebble-like contours of a basic phaser.

He pulled it from Kirk's belt with great care, and moved his fingers over it, establishing carefully which end was the muzzle. He turned his attention to the dial on the top, setting it to stun, on wide beam, then aimed it towards the noise of the crowd. He swallowed, aware that any mistake he had made in his blindness could result in multiple deaths.

'Do not come any closer,' he said loudly. 'I am quite prepared to fire.'

'Starfleet,' one of the men chanted again. 'Bringing your weapons down here. Why don't you bring food, or medical supplies?'

'Food and medical relief is being distributed at established depots,' Spock said clearly, keeping one hand on Jim's motionless torso. 'If you are patient, relief will be supplied.'

'Patient! People're dying,' another one shouted. He heard a child jeer in support, its voice shrill and incoherent. He could not see the crowd, but it sounded as if it was a disparate group of very desperate people.

'There are almost a million inhabitants on this planet,' Spock countered. 'Our ship has a crew of four hundred thirty. It is illogical to believe that we can save everyone.'

He realised that was perhaps a misguided utterance, when another missile landed very close to him.

'We'll take your pointed ears off next, Vulcan,' someone yelled, earning a roar of approval.

'I understand that many of you have suffered great pain – ' he began.

'You sit there preaching!' a woman suddenly shrilled. 'How do _you_ know what the pain's like? What have _you_ lost?'

Spock felt something inside him snap. He got to his feet, holding the phaser pointed towards the crowd.

'I know what the pain feels like because I suffered it from the moment I was infected on this planet,' he said in a dangerously calm voice. 'I know what it is like to suffer that pain until it drives one almost to madness. As for loss – Captain Kirk there has lost his brother and his sister-in-law. His nephew is lying critically ill. And I have lost my sight in testing the treatment to rid you all of the parasite. We are both well aware of the cost of what has happened here.'

Spock stood for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to regain control of himself.

'I believe this phaser is set on stun,' he continued, holding out the device towards the crowd. 'However, because I have lost my sight, I cannot be certain that it is not set to kill. If you continue to threaten me and my Captain, I will not hesitate to use it.'

A hush had fallen over the crowd. Spock could not be sure if it was in response to his speech, or because of their fear of what an obviously angry and blind Vulcan might do with the weapon he held. He stood, nervously holding the phaser, straining to hear what might be happening. At that moment he heard a moan near his feet, and he crouched back down, reaching out a hand to the noise, always keeping his other hand with the phaser pointed towards the crowd.

'Jim?' he asked anxiously.

'Oh, boy, Spock, that's sore,' Kirk murmured, stirring on the steps.

'Are you all right, Jim?'

'Could've done without the rock to the side of the head.'

Kirk sat up a little, taking in the scene of the silent, tense crowd, and Spock with a phaser clutched in his hand, pointed unwaveringly towards the group of Denevans.

'Let me take that phaser,' he said quickly, and Spock passed it over without hesitation.

'You should check the setting,' he said.

'Stun, wide beam,' Kirk muttered. 'Is that what you wanted?' he asked as Spock exhaled in relief.

'It was,' he nodded. 'Do you see your communicator?'

'Yes, it's just here, next to me.'

Spock bit back frustration. If only he could have seen the communicator as easily as Kirk they would be on the ship by now.

'I, er, don't know what you said, but you seem to've gotten through to them,' Kirk said as he sat up a little more. The crowd was beginning to disperse, people moving away guiltily as if they were ashamed of their actions.

'I merely told them the facts of what has happened,' Spock told him.

'Would you really have used that phaser?' Kirk asked curiously.

'I – do not know,' he admitted. 'I imagine not. The repercussions had I chosen the wrong setting would have been too great… There seem to be large levels of desperation here, Jim. Perhaps you should consider sending some security teams down to help organise people. I do not believe that they are getting the aid to which they are entitled.'

'Yeah, I should have thought of that earlier,' Kirk nodded. 'I – guess I've been a little stretched over the last few days.'

'Perhaps that is something I could help with. I have already assisted in the reactivation of the planet's main hospital. Organising the distribution of aid cannot be much more difficult in my present condition.'

'You're right,' Kirk nodded. 'But this isn't the best place to sit and discuss it. Give me a hand up, Spock.'

Spock reached out a strong arm, and helped Kirk clamber to his feet. He only realised now just how painful his right hand was, but he forced himself to ignore the sensation.

'Did you want to fetch what you found for your nephew?' he asked.

'Might as well,' he nodded, but he wavered on his feet as he spoke. 'Oh, that hurts, Spock.'

'Sit down, Jim,' Spock said firmly, lowering Kirk back to the steps. 'Can you tell me where you left his things?'

'In a suitcase just by the kitchen counter – on the living room side. Spock – ' he trailed off as Spock carefully climbed back to the top of the steps.

'Yes, Jim?' Spock asked as he reached the top.

'You know where you're going?' Kirk asked rather lamely. It was obvious that Spock could remember the route to the door.

'I believe so,' Spock nodded, making for the doorway.

'A little to the right,' Kirk told him, and Spock adjusted his course, disappearing inside. After a few moments he returned holding a large brown case in his left hand.

'May I suggest you send someone down to secure the door?' he asked.

'I will, Spock.' He bit his lip on a _careful_ as Spock neared the top of the stairs, but his cane warned him well in time, and he carefully found his way back to Kirk. 'Thanks, Spock,' he smiled. 'Well, let's get back to the ship.'

'An admirable idea.'

Spock heard the chirrup as Kirk opened his communicator, but behind that instant of sound he heard another noise – a slight click, just like the noise Jim's phaser had made as he changed the setting.

'Jim – ' he began, but before he could say anything more he heard a split second of phaser fire, and crumpled unconscious to the floor.

******

The first thing he was aware of was the coldness of the floor under his back, and the hardness of it against his aching skull. Then the slowness of his thoughts, as if a white haze had descended in his brain. Then other sensations crept in – the sharp soreness of the cut on his forehead, and a pulsing, swollen pain in his hand where the rock had hit it earlier. The all-over weakness and coldness and aching were the remnants of stun exhaustion – it was a feeling all too familiar to Spock after his years in Starfleet.

His eyes fluttered open, and he moved his gaze around, searching for any tiny hint of light that might tell him something about where he was. There was perhaps a vague lightening somewhere above him and to the right, but it was impossible to tell if it was a window or an artificial light.

The next subject he extended his awareness to was Jim. If he held his own breath and concentrated hard he could hear the shallow, regular breathing of one in sleep – or unconscious from phaser stun. He could just sense the shadowy hints of his dormant mind, not very far away. They were in the same room. Jim was probably lying on the floor as he was, still unconscious because he did not have the robust strength of a Vulcan.

Spock closed his eyes again, content that neither of them was in immediate danger. He could afford to lie still a little longer, trying to recover strength to his body and clarity to his mind. Gradually he became aware of the voices of men, seemingly from another room, too far away for a human to hear but just audible to his Vulcan ears.

'Get the kid to set a shield up.'

'He can't rig a transporter shield can he?'

'Nah, but he's a demon at altering life-sign readings. Helped him sneak out of detention more times than I care to remember. As long as they don't read these particular – '

A loud noise of something being dragged across the floor cut across their words, and Spock pressed his lips together in frustration.

' – got one already, I'm sure, probably in his locker. Go find him and tell him to do it quickly.'

'He's probably in the canteen. I'll just – '

And then the voices faded away as if their owners had walked out of the room. Spock could still hear someone moving about, closer to him than the voices had been – the person who had been moving something heavy over the floor, presumably. He considered what he had heard them say, running the conversation through his mind again word for word. *_Detention*_, they had said, and *_in his locker*_ and *_canteen*_. That suggested some kind of public building, probably a school. The scents seemed right – strong cleaning fluid and paper and – the inexplicable mustiness of a communal area.

He waited a few minutes longer, then sat up, sweeping his uninjured hand cautiously over the floor where he sat. The floor felt dusty under his palm, but smooth and firm like some kind of easily cleanable material. He could feel the subtle lines where the tiles joined, catching his nails as they passed over them. He tapped his knuckles on the floor, listening intently to the echoes, trying to get an idea of the space he was in. There was hardly any echo to speak of – it sounded, and felt, like a small space, not much bigger than a bathroom.

He stood up, keeping one hand protectively over his head as he did, aware that although logic suggested he was in a normal height room there could be anything above him. The space seemed to be clear though, and he reached out with his arms, feeling for a wall. There was nothing within reach, so he stepped carefully towards the side he had heard the voices from, reasoning that there was probably a door in that wall. He shuffled his feet as he moved, finding anonymous debris on the floor nearer the wall. When he bent to touch it he found it to be books and paper, strewn haphazardly onto the ground.

He reached out again, and almost immediately found the wall. It was not much more than a metre from where he had been lying. It was smooth and cold and featureless, much like the floor – but after a few moments of circling his palm over the surface he found a flat, square switch that probably operated the light – and just to the left of it he felt the recessed surface of a door. There was a smooth oval handle just above waist height – but it would not even move in his grip. Evidently, they were locked in.

Spock exhaled in annoyance, but considering recent events he was not surprised. He continued his careful exploration of the room, using his uninjured hand to explore the walls and his feet to feel the many things that seemed to be strewn over the floor. He discovered that there was almost no furniture in the room – just some shelves that seemed to be bolted to the wall and full of books and files. The floor, however, was half covered with the jumbled assortment of books and papers he had felt before, as if someone had hurriedly emptied out boxes onto the ground. Beside the door and the shelves and the rubbish, the only other feature within his reach was a window roughly two feet by three feet, midway up the end wall.

Spock stopped in his explorations and made his way carefully to where Kirk lay, kneeling down beside him. He had assumed he was suffering from nothing more than phaser exhaustion, but he realised that was not an assumption he could afford to make without seeing him. He felt his still form, and reached his hand up to touch his head, ascertaining that his temperature was within reasonable parameters, and that there was nothing that felt or smelt like blood on his face or scalp. He continued his investigation, carefully feeling over his arms and torso, feeling his clothes for the wetness of blood and testing the movement of his limbs for breaks. He was carefully feeling over Kirk's left thigh when the man suddenly stirred, and murmured, 'Spock, what in God's name are you doing?'

Spock swiftly removed his hand and rested back on his knees.

'Attempting to see if you are all right.'

'Well, I'm – ' It sounded as if he was trying to move, then he muttered, 'Ugh,' and lay still again. 'I'm all right, Spock,' he said. 'Apart from the stun. Are *_you* _all right?'

'Apart from a few minor injuries sustained the first time you were unconscious, I am fine, sir.'

'The first time,' Kirk repeated mirthlessly. 'Now I remember why the pounding headache. But what about your hand, Spock?' he asked, noticing the way the Vulcan was holding his right arm slightly away from his body. 'That doesn't look too minor to me.'

'It is – painful,' Spock admitted.

'I'm not Bones, but I'm pretty sure your pinkie shouldn't be at that angle,' Kirk said critically. 'It looks dislocated.'

'Yes, I surmised as much,' Spock nodded. 'It would be to my advantage for you to return it to its socket,' he said seriously.

'Spock, I think it's broken too,' Kirk told him. 'Without painkillers – '

Spock raised an eyebrow. 'I have had more than my usual practice at suppressing pain recently.'

'Yes, well… Are you sure, Spock?'

Spock felt his finger cautiously. 'I believe you are right that it is broken. It will cause far more pain to me in this position than if you can return it to the correct one and bind it with something.'

'Okay, then,' Kirk said, ripping a strip of fabric from the bottom of his tunic. 'Are you ready?'

Spock closed his eyes, breathing deeply, then nodded. Kirk took hold of his hand, taking a moment to look at the finger before he touched it. Then he grasped it firmly, trying to ignore the green blood and the grating of the bones, and pulled it firmly outwards and back into its proper position.

'All right, Spock?' he asked in concern, noticing the whiteness of the Vulcan's face.

Spock took a moment, swallowing unobtrusively, then nodded, opening his eyes again. 'Yes, Captain, I am quite fine,' he nodded. 'But I would appreciate it if you would bind it for me?'

'Looks like I'm taking over from the doctor today,' Kirk murmured, binding the finger firmly to the one next to it with the strip he had torn from his top. 'Is that all right?' he asked, trying to tie off the bandage as unobtrusively as he could.

'It is – better,' Spock nodded, still sounding rather distracted. 'Thank you, Jim.'

'Don't mention it.'

'I suppose it is too much to hope that the cane is here?' Spock asked, trying to draw the subject away from his hand. 'I don't imagine I will need it in the immediate, but it is – reassuring – to have.'

'I can't see it, Spock,' Kirk said after a moment of looking around. 'Where the hell are we, Spock?' he said in exasperation. 'All I remember is a phaser shot, then waking up here. I guess you were the same?'

'Yes,' Spock nodded. 'But from our surroundings and what little conversation I have heard I would guess we were in a school building.'

'You heard them talking?'

'Just briefly. Two males, and a possible third. They also mentioned a juvenile, and the possibility of him erecting a shield to disguise our life signs. Can you see anything from the window, Jim?'

'Window?' Kirk asked, looking about. 'There isn't a window, Spock. It's just a store room, I think.'

'I – felt a window,' Spock said, frowning. 'At that end of the room,' he added, pointing to his right.

Kirk laughed softly. 'That's some kind of noticeboard. It's metallic, and there's nothing on it, so it probably felt like a window.'

'That would explain it,' Spock said, sounding almost annoyed.

'It's an easy mistake to make,' Kirk reassured him, touching his arm.

'For a man without sight,' Spock added flatly. He fell into silence, sitting with his arms about his bent knees, staying still as Kirk made his own investigations into the room they were in. It was one thing being on the ship without sight, where he was certain of his surroundings. This was a different situation entirely, and he detested the feeling of helplessness that had descended on him.

'Glad to see they use real books in this school,' Kirk murmured as he returned to Spock's side, picking something up from the floor. 'At least we've got reading material.'

Spock turned his head to him mutely, raising an eyebrow.

'Well, I can read to you,' Kirk amended.

'What is it, Captain?' he asked, reaching out curiously to the book he could hear Kirk's hands moving over.

'Er – this is Macbeth,' Kirk said, handing it over instinctively. 'There's a couple more Shakespeares, some theory books, some math.'

'I could recite most of the Shakespeare to you without recourse to the text,' Spock pointed out. 'And I imagine that the mathematics are rather beneath my level of ability.'

He pressed the book between his palms without opening it. He could not get used to the idea that he would never again see the figures and letters that were inside, that lined up as visual memories in his mind when he thought of them. He placed the book carefully back on the floor.

'I guess so,' Kirk nodded. 'Well… What do you think, Spock? Sit and wait, or holler and bang on the door?'

Spock cocked his ear towards the door, then got to his feet and made his way over to it, leaning his head close to the panel.

'I cannot hear anyone out there now. Waiting may be the best recourse at present.'

'I wonder what they want with us,' Kirk mused.

'That mob was quite angry about the lack of food and medical supplies. They cannot be the only ones. I imagine our captors believe that a hostage situation may bring them what they need.'

'_Asking_ us would bring them what they need,' Kirk said darkly. 'Stunning us and sticking us in a dusty storeroom doesn't make me feel inclined to help them.'

'The crowd seemed fairly calm by the time you came around,' Spock remembered. 'Perhaps our captors are working to some more specific agenda of their own.'

He ran his hand over the door again, probing into the slight crack between the door and the frame, then trying again to make the handle move.

'I doubt you can force it,' Kirk said, coming over as Spock rattled the handle in frustration. 'It looks pretty secure. I think it must lock from outside.'

'And there is no window,' Spock said, stilling his hand on the handle. 'Are there no ventilation ducts?'

'No, nothing,' Kirk told him, looking about. 'Some shelves, a light panel flush to the ceiling, a door, and a load of books and papers.'

Spock pursed his lips together, trying to think what might be gained from the resources at hand. He was forced to conclude that unless they intended to climb up on the shelves, smash the light, and hold the paper to it to burn their way out of the room there was very little that could be gained. The only way out was the door. He put his hand to the handle again, feeling over it, trying to work out by trying to move it what kind of lock it was keeping the door closed. Finally he gave up at that avenue and moved his hand to the other side, trying to discover if there were hinges and if they had any weaknesses.

'Spock, sit down,' Kirk said finally. 'We can't do anything, and we've both just been stunned. We'd be better off resting and recovering our strength for when they do finally decide to open the door.'

'Yes,' Spock said reluctantly. He had to admit that the stun exhaustion was throwing off his ability to control his frustration and to suppress the throbbing pain in his right hand.

'Here,' Kirk said, touching his arm as he moved back across the room. 'I made a pile of some books and paper. It's surprisingly comfortable – and not as chilly as the floor.'

Spock crouched down to feel the spread of paper in front of him against the wall, then turned round and sat down on it. It was more comfortable than the floor had been – but the situation was far from pleasing to him. He closed his eyes, extending his awareness to the sounds outside the room, realising that he could hear movement and footsteps again. Then he caught the sound of someone saying, ' – didn't even plan this. What the hell're we going to do with them?'

'Spock?' Kirk asked, seeing his concentration.

He raised a hand, turning his ear towards the door again.

' – know our agenda,' he heard another voice say. 'We know what we want, and with these two in there we'll get it for sure. I've been checking up on the insignia on their shirts – the human's the captain of his ship, the Vulcan's a commander. They're not just – '

The voices faded away again, then he caught, ' – bring them out here and give them a going over.'

The footsteps moved closer, and Spock said swiftly, 'They're coming for us. They didn't plan to capture us, but they *_do*_ have an agenda. They don't know – '

He broke off as a key turned in the lock, focussing his attention rigidly on the people who were just about to enter. The multitude of footsteps suggested there were three or four of them, the heaviness of the tread and the voices he had heard suggesting they were all male. He stood, touching his hand to the wall behind him, trying to focus on Kirk's actions as well as their captors. Jim stepped forward a little, positioning himself slightly in front of Spock as the door cracked open, and stark daylight chased away the artificial light in the small room.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

Kirk fixed his eyes on the three men who moved into the doorway of the store room, blocking his view of what was outside. All three looked tired, thin and unshaven, with expressions ranging from tired desperation to outright hostility. Their clothes were dirty and creased, as if they had not been changed in weeks.

Spock took half a step forward, closing the distance between himself and his captain, unsure as to whether he was moving for his own protection, or for Jim's. Blind or not, he knew he would be a force to be reckoned with in a physical fight. He could see nothing of the men's clothing or expressions, but he could feel the thick haze of anger and exhaustion in the air. Despite the strength of those emotions, the repressed fury from Kirk's mind almost overwhelmed his perception of them.

'Would you care to tell us what you mean by assaulting us, dragging us here and locking us in?' Kirk asked icily. Spock had heard that tone of voice many times before. It meant that his captain was white-hot with anger, and at his most dangerous.

'Out,' a rough voiced man said shortly. 'Get out there.'

There was a brief hesitation, then Kirk said quietly, 'They've got my phaser, Spock.'

Spock reached out silently and cautiously for Kirk's arm, but was stopped by the sharp crack of a stick across his forearm.

'Watch it, Vulcan,' one of them said – a man with a thinner, higher-pitched voice. 'Keep your hands by your sides.'

'I cannot see,' Spock said in a brittle tone. 'I need guidance.'

'Oh, that's what this is for,' the man replied, tapping something to the ground. 'They let blind people into Starfleet now, do they? No wonder it's going to hell.'

The sense of Kirk's anger increased palpably, but fortunately he had the restraint not to do anything foolish. Spock realised the stick that had hit him must have been his own cane – and also that either these men had not been part of the crowd that assaulted them, or that they had not heard him announcing his blindness to them. He pressed his lips together. He wanted to ask for the cane, but he did not expect to be given it, and he did not want to beg for it. The sense of curiosity he could feel in the room had suddenly increased, and he did not enjoy the sudden scrutiny.

'I need guidance,' he repeated. 'Will you allow me to hold my captain's arm?'

'Go on – just don't try anything,' the man said.

He reached out again, holding Kirk's arm perhaps a little tighter than was necessary. He felt irrationally vulnerable. He could feel Kirk's tight sense of worry through the touch, and he could not help but be angry at himself for provoking that concern.

He sensed the space getting larger as they left the storeroom, as if they had entered another room rather than a corridor. His suspicion was confirmed as one of the men said, 'Sit down over there,' and Kirk led him on a rather circuitous course through the room. He held his right hand out despite the injury to his finger and felt the corners of what he presumed were desks as they moved.

'Here, Spock, sit down,' Kirk murmured, putting his hand to the back of a wooden seat.

He sat, laying his hands on his thighs as Kirk drew up a chair beside him. The men stayed on the other side of the room. He could sense that they were highly nervous – of their captives or of the situation he could not tell – but their nervousness made him deeply cautious.

'First,' the rough-voiced man said. 'I know you're a captain. I want to know your names.'

'Kirk,' Kirk said shortly. There was no gain in hiding their identities. 'This is my science officer, Mr Spock. And you? Are we allowed to know the names of the men who're holding phasers to our heads?'

'Brown, Artois, and Shelley,' the man said shortly, presumably indicating who was who with his body language.

'Well, Mr Brown. I – don't suppose you've got any painkillers?' he asked, touching his hand gingerly to the swelling on his head.

The rough-voiced man laughed shortly. Presumably he was Brown, then. Spock sensed that Kirk's question was angled so that Spock could put the names to the voices.

'You think we've got a painkiller left on this whole damn planet?' he asked.

Kirk paused, then gave a tired laugh. 'No, I guess not.'

'Painkillers are not effective against the creature's exertion,' Spock said tonelessly.

'That don't stop you trying, Mr Scientist,' the thinner-voiced man snarled.

'No,' Spock said quietly.

'Spock was infested by one of those things for almost a week,' Kirk added, hoping that might garner some sympathy from their captors. 'He's blind because we tested the light treatment on him that killed the creatures.'

There was a long pause, then Brown said, 'That's lovely. We're very grateful to him. But it don't mean a goddamn thing right now.'

'What do you require of us?' Spock asked. He did not relish using his blindness as a bargaining tool.

'You know how long it is since we've had a Fed ship come here?' Brown asked. He seemed to have slipped into the role of spokesperson for the small group.

'Four years, six months, fifteen days,' Spock said smoothly. His precision did not seem to help. 'Your last official radio contact was one year, three months, seventeen days ago.'

'We're supposed to be a Fed colony,' the man said bitterly. 'You don't think we merit more visits than that?'

'Deneva voted for secession almost ten years ago,' Spock said flatly. 'You agreed to limited contact at five year intervals. If I recall correctly, you wanted contact intervals of fifteen years.'

'No,' Brown said sharply. 'The slime-ridden, money-grabbing government wanted it. They never asked us about contact. They never asked us about secession. And _you_ - you have a duty to – '

'We have a duty to listen to the elected government of the planet,' Kirk cut across crisply.

'We were infected for *_eight months*_,' he snapped. 'You think it's all right to leave humans to suffer that kind of pain for eight months?'

There was a long silence. Spock could feel a tight pain and regret emanating from Kirk. Obviously it was at least that long since he had had contact with his brother – and perhaps he had died as a result.

'What do you want from us?' Kirk asked finally.

There was another silence. The tension in the room was palpable.

'They do not know,' Spock said quietly to Kirk. 'They have no logical plan or intentions.'

'Shut up,' the thin-voiced man snapped suddenly, his voice full of uncontrolled anger. 'Shut up, get up, come over here.'

Spock clenched his uninjured hand in his lap. He had sensed that it was best to remain quiet. He should have listened to his intuition.

'You will need to help me,' he said reluctantly.

'No. Just come over here and stop your smart remarks to your friend there.'

Spock pressed his lips together, then, in deference to the phasers he knew they had, he stood and began to make his way towards where the man had spoken from. He felt a desk in front of him, and moved along to the end of it, then stepped out into open space, knowing that soon he would meet another desk or chairs or, considering the state of the storeroom, anything that could be strewn on the floor. He moved with painful cautiousness, and he could feel the men becoming more impatient with his slowness. He felt a stab of anger at being seen like this by strangers, but he pushed it away, trying to focus only on his task.

He stumbled into something that felt like an overturned chair, and felt his way around it, then felt another desk in front of him. It seemed to be taking an age just to cross what he estimated to be about seven metres of classroom. Every time he was forced to move around an obstacle he had to reassess his position in the room, and reorient himself to his goal. Finally one of the men exhaled noisily and came over to him, taking hold of his arm and steering him through the room.

'They don't like non-humans much – you'd be best staying quiet,' he said in an undertone, then said in a louder voice, 'Come on, over here,' as he pulled him around a desk.

This was the man who had barely spoken until now. The other two voices were the same ones that Spock had heard talking outside when they were locked in. Perhaps this was the one who had been moving objects in this classroom earlier. His mental emanations seemed less angry than the others. But then another hand grabbed at his arm and pulled him roughly across the last metre of floor, and he felt the pressure of a phaser touching his side. He knew before he spoke that it was the thin-voiced man – his fingers matched his voice, pinching and bony where they clenched on his arm.

'What do we want?' he said tersely. 'We want food, we want medical supplies, we want our government to acknowledge that we need more Federation help. One million people aren't enough for an independent planet.'

Spock raised an eyebrow, but he was unwilling to speak in his precarious situation. Kirk laughed bitterly, however.

'For a start, you'll be lucky to have three quarters of your population left after what's happened. Thousands of people have died. Secondly, even if your government's survived they're certainly not active right now. Thirdly, you're *_getting*_ food and medical supplies. You'll get more once relief ships get here. Holding us here isn't going to get you anything you're not getting already.'

'I've not seen any food,' the man hissed. 'I've not seen any of your men handing out anything.'

'We're having to prioritise aid to the sick and vulnerable,' Kirk said firmly. 'We're a ship of four hundred and thirty. We don't have the resources to feed this many people. Maybe *_you*_ should do something, Mr Artois. Gather people together, gather the remaining food together, ration it out.'

'There *_isn't*_ any remaining food,' Artois blazed, his voice roughening with the force of his anger. 'Not in this part of the city. We've been searching for days.'

'Well, if that's true I'm sure we can get you some ration packs,' Kirk said reasonably.

'*_If*_ it's true?' Spock felt the phaser pressure a little harder into his ribs, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to stay relaxed. It was likely this man was not familiar with such weapons, and he knew that it was possible he would be shot entirely by mistake. '*_If*_ it's true?'

'All right,' Kirk said quickly. 'It was just a figure of speech. Now, if that's all you want…'

'Oh, we want more than that,' Artois said, his voice now dangerously calm. 'We want the Federation to agree that our government made an illegal decision and take back control of this place.'

'But we can't – ' Kirk began.

Artois' hand pushed suddenly at Spock's back, and he stumbled forward, holding out his hands before him.

'Kneel down!' Artois said, almost in a scream. 'Kneel down there now.'

Spock didn't have to see it to know that the phaser was still pointed at him. He knelt swiftly, putting his hand to the floor in front of him. There was a noise of fumbling, of something being thrown and clattering onto the floor near Kirk.

'Call your ship, tell them to give our demands to the Federation council – or I'll spill some of that lovely green blood on the floor here.'

Spock tensed, overwhelmed by the sense that *_something*_ was being held above his head by the man.

'Hey now, come on,' the calmer one of their captors said. Spock presumed this was the one called Shelley, since he had now put names to the other two men.

'Put that down,' Kirk said almost simultaneously in a low voice.

'We weren't going to hurt them bad,' Brown put in. 'Put it down, Jed.'

'I'm beyond caring,' Artois hissed. 'Now go on, Starfleet-boy. Call your ship.'

'Even if I do – ' Kirk began.

'What should I break?' the man said menacingly, cutting across Kirk's protest. 'Arm? Leg? How'd he like a broken jaw? Will he know which way to move to try to dodge it when I swing?'

The silence stretched out. It seemed to last for minutes, but Spock knew that in reality it was only ten seconds. The whole time he could feel the oppression of that *_something*_ being held over him, and the only warning he would have of it hitting him would be the noise it would make as it swung through the air. Then there was the noise of a communicator chirruping, and Kirk said in a tight voice, 'Kirk to _Enterprise_.'

'Captain!' Uhura's voice replied. 'We've been trying to locate you. Your communication cut off. Did something happen?'

'In a manner of speaking,' Kirk said wryly. 'Who's in command, Lieutenant?'

'Mr Scott, sir.'

'Let me speak to him.'

There was a short pause, then the voice of the chief engineer saying, 'Scott here, Captain. Are ye all right?'

'Commander Scott, Mr Spock and I are being held hostage on Deneva,' Kirk said succinctly. 'Our captors request that we contact the Federation council and demand that they bring Deneva back under Federation jurisdiction.'

He could see little sense in prevaricating or attempting to get hidden messages through to Scott. There was very little chance of anything happening swiftly in response to the men's demands, whereas there was a high chance of Spock being seriously hurt if their captors detected any deception.

'Oh,' Scott said slowly. 'Do they now?'

'Scotty, they're threatening to injure Mr Spock,' Kirk said seriously.

'Och, well, I'll pass on their demands, Captain,' Scott said carefully. 'Are ye both all right?'

'We're not too bad – so far,' Kirk said, casting his gaze at the heavy metal bar that was being held above Spock's head. It was doubtless that it had the potential to seriously hurt him if the man holding it decided to strike him with it.

'But you could be,' Artois said softly.

'But we could be,' Kirk repeated. Spock was kneeling motionless, his face expressionless, but Kirk knew him well enough to see an unusual degree of fear in his bearing. He knew the Vulcan had little fear of pain, but vulnerability was a different matter.

'Do what you can, won't you, Mr Scott?' he asked, trusting his chief engineer to understand the double meaning of his question.

'Aye, of course,' Scott replied. 'I'll update you within the hour. Scott out.'

'Does that satisfy you?' Kirk asked tartly, closing the communicator. 'Will you stop threatening my science officer now?'

He locked eyes with the man behind Spock. He held the bar steady for a moment, then lowered it slowly and put it down on a nearby desk. Kirk began to move, then looked at Brown questioningly. He hesitated to give Artois too much credence as group leader – he seemed too unstable. Brown nodded slowly.

'Come get him if you want. Just don't try anything.'

Kirk rose swiftly and went to Spock's side, touching his arm as he got to his feet. He could feel the tension in the Vulcan, that slowly dissipated as Kirk touched him.

'All right, Spock?' he asked in a low voice.

'Quite,' Spock nodded, his voice perfectly steady. 'I – regret that my disability is providing such a point of leverage, Captain.'

'It's not something that can be helped, Spock,' Kirk murmured, moving him away from their captors slightly. 'I'm just sorry I got you into this.'

'You have got me into nothing, Jim,' Spock told him. 'I requested to come with you. I understand the risks of such situations. My blindness does not affect – '

'All right,' Brown cut over Spock's words. 'You've got the ball rolling. Get back in that room now.'

Kirk hesitated, glancing over to the open door to the storeroom. He didn't relish the idea of being shut back in there, with nothing but old text books and a flickering electric light as distractions.

'Tell me,' he said, focussing on Shelley as the most rational of the group. 'This is a school, isn't it. Don't you have replicators here?'

'Yeah, there're replicators,' he nodded. 'In the canteen.'

'Then why are you going hungry? All you need is some matter with the right chemical elements to feed into it.'

'We *_know*_ that,' Brown snapped. 'They're smashed. Someone smashed them.'

'Perhaps they could be fixed,' Spock suggested.

'By who? Do I look like a technician? Why don't *_you*_ fix them, with all your Starfleet training?'

'I cannot,' Spock said flatly. 'I am blind.'

'You might be able to tell me what to do,' Kirk offered.

Spock raised an eyebrow, trying to keep expression from his face. They were already in enough peril as it was. It seemed foolish to offer out promises to these desperate people – especially promises relying on his skill at repairing equipment by touch.

'It's worth a try,' Kirk urged him. 'It's better than being locked in there, Spock,' he said in a quieter voice. 'And depending on how long we're here, it could be in our own interest.'

'Point taken,' Spock nodded slowly. 'It – is possible. Perhaps if I could feel the circuits, if the power is off…'

There was a long silence, then Shelley said, 'If they can fix it – we could feed more than just us. Leslie too, Jed. She's near incapacitated with hunger, isn't she?'

There was silence again, then Artois said, 'Yeah, she is. I guess…'

'It can't hurt,' Brown put in. 'We can bring the units up here – there's the right power connections in this lab for them, and all the tools, too.'

'If we agree to try to fix them – will you let Spock have that cane?' Kirk asked carefully. 'We can't use it as a weapon – it's not strong enough. It won't hurt you to let him have it.'

There was quiet again, then Artois picked up the cane and threw it. It clattered onto the floor in front of them, and Kirk bent to pick it up and touched it to Spock's hand. Spock took it wordlessly, but Kirk could read the relief in his frame as he took hold of the one device that gave him a small sense of being able to function without assistance in this place that he had never seen.

******

'They're being held *_hostage*_?' McCoy asked incredulously of the voice at the other end of the intercom. 'By the people whose lives we just saved?'

'Aye, Doctor. The very same,' Scott replied grimly. There was no real tactical need to pass the information on to the ship's doctor at this stage, but he saw a definite need to pass on the news to Kirk and Spock's closest friend. 'They want the Federation to take Deneva back under their wing – but I canna see them agreeing to a demand like that made by hostage-takers.'

'And you can't find them?' McCoy asked, sounding as if he was close to bursting with frustration and anger.

'The captain's nigh on impossible to find anyway amongst so many humans,' Scott told him. 'But we've scanned multiple times, and we canna even pick up Spock's signs. They must have something blocking out their lifesigns.'

'Are they in danger?' the doctor asked, looking towards his medical kit, almost picking it up, and then realising the uselessness of that action while he was on the ship and Spock and Kirk were lost on the planet's surface. He hated situations like this. Given a living body in front of him, he at least had a chance, but all he could do now was trust to computers and their operators to do their jobs.

'They – were threatening to hurt Mr Spock if the captain didn't do as they said,' Scott said tightly. 'I got the feeling from the captain that they were serious.'

'Damn them,' McCoy muttered, banging his fist hard onto the desk. This was the last thing they needed right now, with the ship flooded with casualties and so much in need of attention on the planet below.

'Aye,' Scott said. 'I'm beaming some teams down to search, and we're doing what we can to find and pierce their sensor shield. I canna help feeling – well, I canna help thinking we oughtn't to leave Mr Spock in their hands – not blind as he is now.'

'No, I know,' McCoy nodded pensively. 'Spock would be the first to say it's not logical, but I feel the same.'

'In their hands?' a female voice asked anxiously. McCoy looked up to see Chapel standing in the doorway to his office, concern clear on her face. 'Where's Mr Spock, Doctor? What's happened?'

'Scotty, I'll get back to you,' McCoy said quickly. 'Let me know if anything changes.'

He flicked the intercom off, and looked up again to meet the nurse's eyes.

'Christine, come sit down,' he said, indicating the chair on the other side of his desk.

'What is it, Leonard?' she asked insistently, coming over to the desk but ignoring his invitation to sit.

McCoy took in a deep breath. 'The captain and Spock beamed down to Deneva to pick up some things for young Peter Kirk. It – seems that they were taken hostage by some desperate people down there.'

'But he's – ' She faltered, then seemed to recover control of herself, and began again, 'Doctor, are they in danger?'

'They – were threatening to hurt Spock.'

Chapel sat suddenly, as if someone had stolen the strength from her legs. She clenched her hands, staring at her own fingers as she flexed them open and closed.

'It can't be so hard to pick up Vulcan life signs,' she began hopefully after a moment of thought.

'Scotty thinks they've got some kind of blocking device. We can't pick up his life signs.'

She fell silent again, biting her lip into her mouth, willing herself to stay composed.

'Christine, you've gotten – close – with Spock over the past few days, haven't you?' McCoy asked her suddenly.

She looked down, seeming for a moment that she was going to deny it. Then she looked up and met his blue eyes with ones equally blue, but lightly hazed with tears. 'Yes, I have, Doctor,' she said with a tone of defensiveness.

'Have you slept with him?'

She stiffened, her eyes widening a little. 'Leonard, we may be friends, but I think that's pushing the bounds of – '

'Hell, Chris, I'm not pumping you for the latest gossip,' McCoy said in exasperation. 'Now, just tell me – have you slept with him?'

She nodded silently, her lips pressed together.

'More than once?'

She nodded again. 'Why?' she asked. 'What relevance does this have?'

'I know very little about Vulcan relationships, Christine, but I know that if he slept with you he's likely to have melded with you during – the act,' he said uncomfortably.

'Well,' she began hesitantly. It simply felt wrong to be revealing what had happened between her and Spock in such private moments, even to a friend as close as Dr McCoy. 'Yes,' she admitted. 'Yes, he did meld – just a very light touch.'

'Well, it may be enough to help. They may be able to throw up screens to stop our machines picking up their life signs – but there's no better machine than the human mind. Come on,' he said, grasping her arm above the elbow. 'We need to get down there and start helping.'


	10. Chapter 10

10.

Spock sat on a chair in the lab they were being held in, his fingers lightly touching a jumbled spread of wires in front of him, trying to visualise the internal schematics of a standard replicator and reconcile his memory with the chaos he could feel in brief snatches under his fingertips. The task seemed almost impossible, but at least it had distracted their captors from locking them back in the small storeroom, or from threatening them – and at least it went some way towards distracting *_him*_ from the overwhelming vulnerability he felt in this situation.

'This should be the link 17A to the primary molecule resequencer,' he said, running a wire between his fingertips.

'Er,' Kirk began. Spock could feel the bulk of him leaning in close to him, his breath warm on his shoulder.

'It should say 17A both on the cable and on the connection on the board,' Spock said patiently. 'The cable should be light blue.'

'It is light blue,' Kirk said. He hesitated, then said, 'Yes, it says 17A on the cable and the board – but it's been pulled out at the other end.'

'Yes, I know,' Spock nodded, rolling the raw end of the wire between his fingertips. 'You need to locate connection 17B and link the cable to it, being sure to pass it through the resonance coil just above 34E.'

There was hesitation again, and Spock sighed.

'Jim, I cannot find the resonance coil myself. It is too small, and feels too similar to other components. You must identify it.'

'What does it look like?'

Spock pressed his lips together in frustration, resisting the urge to say, *_it looks like a resonance coil*_. 'It – is likely to be grey, about one inch in length, and – '

'It's that, there,' a voice said from behind him. He had been conscious of someone else behind him, but he hadn't realised it was not one of their three captors until he heard him speak. This sounded like a teenaged boy – presumably the one who had set up the sensor shield. 'There,' he said, taking hold of Spock's finger and touching it to something. Spock ignored the discomfort he felt at the sudden, uninvited touch and let his fingertip move over the object, feeling the smoothness of the material and the ribbing down its length.

'I believe the boy is right,' he nodded. He turned his head towards him. 'If you could pass the wire through it for me – ? My hand is injured.'

'Yeah… I'll need an impulse solderer for the connection at the other end.'

'There is one on the desk,' Spock said.

The boy picked up the tool and moved in close to Spock.

'Does the molecule resequencer look intact?' Spock asked as the boy worked. 'If it is too damaged I am not sure I can fix it.'

'No, I think it's fine,' he said, sounding as if he was concentrating. 'There. That's that connection. I guess you'll want to do the heating circuits now?'

'Yes,' Spock said, tracing his fingertips over the wires again. 'Something is missing… The connection wire between the second resequencing module and its power supply.'

'There's a good supply in the cupboard over there,' the boy said, presumably indicating a direction with his body language.

'We will need at least twenty centimetres of Grade C insulated copper,' Spock said. 'It must be Grade C. If it is too fine it will burn out.'

'I'll go see what we've got,' the boy nodded, scraping his chair across the floor as he stood.

'The boy's good,' Kirk murmured to Spock as he walked away.

'His skill is extremely useful in this situation,' Spock nodded, feeling with great care along the maze of wires surrounding the heating circuits. Whatever Kirk's motives had been in suggesting he try to repair the replicator, he had certainly succeeding in dialling down the tension for everyone in the room, and passing the time with less tedium. 'I do not believe I could have managed this without help.'

'You think the shield generator he built is as skilfully done?' Kirk asked in a still lower voice.

Spock tilted his head a little. 'Before I had met the boy, I would have doubted it. Now, however, I am not so sure.'

******

*_Everything is based on assumptions,_* McCoy thought helplessly as he looked about himself on beaming down. They had to _*assume_* that Jim and Spock were still on the same continent, they had to _*assume_* that they were in the same city, they had to _*assume_* that their captors were weak enough in their defences that a rescue could be carried out.

Deneva did not look encouraging on this visit. Last time it had been like a film set waiting for the props people to do their jobs before the actors could come in. This time the streets were strewn with looted debris, windows were broken, doors kicked in. Redshirts from the _Enterprise_ seemed to be swarming about the place, peering in through doorways and down alleys, swinging tricorders in wide circles, searching for any reading that might suggest a Vulcan and a human in confinement. He wondered bleakly whether this situation would have ever arisen if the ship's security forces had been deployed with such enthusiasm to help the survivors of the parasite infection.

He looked sideways at Christine. As she had dozens of times before where Spock was concerned, she looked composed and calm, containing her worry in a sheath of professionalism. But he had seen that professionalism crack. Hell, he had seen it crack just a scant week ago when they had operated on Spock to try to remove the parasite. Now, her emotions were closer to the surface than ever. But still, her face was composed and her bearing was steady as she took in the scene around her.

'You'd make a Vulcan proud,' McCoy muttered, not unkindly.

She looked at him, and said questioningly, 'Doctor?'

'That poker face,' he smiled, nodding his head towards her.

'I have a lot of practice,' she said dryly. There was a grim tone to her voice, but no trace of her earlier shaky anxiety.

McCoy nodded again, the startling realisation coming over him of how similar she was to Spock in many ways. He had seen her bury her emotions, again and again. He had seen her push aside personal feeling to perform her duty, tending to the injuries of her friends and comrades, even pulling up the sheets over their faces and manoeuvring the dead weights onto trolleys for the morgue, without her emotions interfering once with her ability to do as she needed to do. Inevitably he saw those bursts of joy or tenderness or sadness at times – but never to the detriment of her abilities as a nurse.

He smiled at her again, touching her arm briefly in reassurance, then looked about until his eyes fixed on Security Chief Giotto, who stood some way away staring at a datapadd.

'Commander!' he called in a ringing tone, raising a hand.

The chief looked up, then jogged over to him.

'Doctor, it's not advisable for you two to be here,' he said without preamble. 'We've already got one hostage situation.'

'Well, we *_are* _here,' McCoy said gruffly. Giotto always managed to rile him somehow – perhaps it was that stalwart adherence to the law of the phaser that irked him, or that he always looked straight to the captain without considering any other advice, no matter how expert. 'With full clearance from Commander Scott as acting captain. We might have another way to find Mr Spock.'

'All right, Doctor,' Giotto conceded in an unconvinced tone, looking over towards a small group of his men. 'You use your medical scanners, we'll use our security ones. We'll see who finds them first.'

'Fine,' McCoy nodded. He wasn't about to correct the security man, and tell him that in fact they would be using the Vulcan ability to form strong mental links during sexual contact to aid in the search.

'You're armed with a phaser?' the chief asked.

'Of course,' McCoy nodded, touching his hip to be sure, then glancing sideways at Chapel. She was wearing a wide black weapons belt about her usual nurse's uniform, and although her medical kit was fixed to one side, on the other side her hand was resting on the butt of her phaser with a determination that chilled him a little.

'Fine. Report in every half hour.'

'Mr Scott has already requested that,' McCoy said, a little stiffly.

Giotto nodded again, then turned back to his men and jogged back over to them. Chapel caught McCoy's eyes, and the brightness that he was used to lit her face for a moment as she smiled and said, 'Subtle, isn't he?'

'As a Klingon battle cruiser,' McCoy grinned back.

He had spent many hours in the last few days wondering what it was in Christine that had attracted Spock to her. He had settled for her intellect, her dedication to duty, her ability to control herself when needed – all things that Spock would admire. But perhaps it was also that same trait that seemed to attract Spock to Jim – the ability to smile and light everything up around her as long as the smile lasted. Perhaps, without the ability to make such gestures himself, Spock simply liked to be around someone else who could.

'Come on,' he said, touching her arm warmly. 'Let's find somewhere quiet and calm, and you can see if you can hear him.'

'How about over there?' she said, nodding her head towards a bench a hundred yards away that was both struck by the sun, and shaded from the eyes of most of the security personnel by a high concrete planter behind it.

'Looks perfect,' McCoy nodded, wondering just what _*was_* perfect for what they were about to attempt.

'Do you have any ideas on what to do?' Chapel asked as she sat on the sun-warmed bench. 'I've looked at lots of texts on the Vulcan mind techniques, but you've spent more time with Mr Spock than I have.'

'He doesn't exactly go around melding with everyone he sees,' McCoy said dubiously. 'It's a private business. It usually involves a desperate situation or a very close relationship.'

A slight smile quirked at the corners of Chapel's mouth as he said that, as if he had just given her a compliment.

'Just - try and find out where they are,' McCoy said. He didn't want to think too hard about the physicalities of the relationship that was obviously going on between two of his close friends.

She closed her eyes, her forehead creasing with the depth of her concentration. Eventually she shook her head in frustration. 'I don't know how to _do_ this,' she said wretchedly. 'I don't know how to make the connection.'

'Well, it looks like you're trying to contact him with your facial muscles,' McCoy pointed out. 'Now, Spock never looks like he's making a physical effort. If anything he looks more relaxed – glazed, even.'

'It's – a little like trying to wiggle your ears,' she explained. 'You try, but every muscle _*but_* those ones start working.'

'Then maybe you shouldn't try so hard, Christine,' McCoy said softly. 'Just open your mind and let him come in. If I know Spock you're probably somewhere in his thoughts right now. He's capable of holding so many things in his head at once. Just try to find that part of him that's thinking of you.'

'All right, Leonard,' she said with a smile. She closed her eyes again, and let her mind relax…

******

In the lab, Spock straightened up suddenly, his eyes widening instinctively as a certain knowledge entered his mind. Nothing as crude as words, it was an intense perception of Christine Chapel's mental being, running into every thought in his head and replacing it with the essence of what she was. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, leaving him with a buzzing nothingness something like white noise.

Kirk's voice cut through the haze, asking anxiously, 'Spock? Did you touch something? Did you get a shock?'

Spock blinked, forcing himself back into this reality, saying, 'Oh – er – it was a wire, Captain. I pricked my finger.' He could not tell Kirk what had really startled him – not under the watchful eyes of their captors.

'Let me see,' Kirk said quickly, touching his hand. Spock let him lift it and examine his fingers carefully. 'No blood.'

'No,' Spock said distractedly. 'No, it startled me – nothing more. Francis,' he called to the boy beside him. 'Would you put my hand back to the pattern buffers? Circuit 7C.'

'Sure – it's just here,' the boy said, touching Spock's finger to the correct circuit.

Spock was still feeling wire by wire through the internal electronics of the replicator, determining what was and was not damaged, and how to fix it. The boy Francis was invaluable. He freely admitted he would not have been able to fix it himself, but he understood just enough about the workings to help Spock and to fix what the Vulcan could not manage without sight.

Spock slid his fingers along another wire in the sequence. They were close to finishing their task. This area of the replicator was relatively undamaged, and he was performing little more than a fingertip check, automatically comparing what *_should_* be there with what *_was_* there.

He set a part of his mind to continuing his task, and simultaneously relaxed his mental barriers, reaching out for that mind that had so obviously been reaching out to him. He caught the tendrils of her thoughts, slipping past him like mist. He latched onto them, focussing his mind, trying to grasp the thoughts as he would grasp the hand of someone falling from a cliff. Carefully he eased his mind closer, and closer, until suddenly….

He was overwhelmed with a relief that was not his own, and a happiness that felt like bright sunshine, and an abrupt unbounded urge to laugh out loud with the release of tension.

*_Christine,_* he thought steadyingly, impressing upon her the need to focus and control her thoughts. Gradually he began to pick up an idea of what was in her mind as the swell of emotions settled. The fear and joy and anxiety slipped away from the solid substance of what she was trying to communicate to him. She was sitting in a warm breeze and warm sunshine. She was with McCoy. She was searching for him. She needed to know where he was.

A feeling of helplessness washed through his mind at that, although his hands kept moving over the replicator wires without pause. He was sitting in semi-darkness, in the place where he had woken up from unconsciousness. He was not the one to ask.

Her reassurance came like a warmth spreading through his thoughts. He saw what he had already told her – the replicator he was working on, the lab equipment, the hollow sound that footsteps made on the floor in the large room. The scents of cleaning fluid and solder and wooden furniture.

'Hey!' Francis said suddenly, gripping his wrist and wrenching it away from the wires. 'You almost touched a capacitor.'

Spock blinked, then realised that in his preoccupation he had begun to rewire a damaged part as if he could see what was in front of him. Perhaps he would have been able to safely reattach the capacitor, but he could only be grateful to the boy for his observance.

'Thank you, Francis,' he nodded, removing his wrist from the boy's grip. 'Perhaps you could attempt that part for me?'

'Spock, what were you thinking?' Kirk asked as Spock moved sideways to let the boy in. 'You could've killed yourself!'

'I – confess I was not concentrating on the task at hand,' Spock said sombrely. He could still think of no way to communicate what he had sensed to his captain. He sat in silence for a moment, then said casually, 'The sun is bright, is it not? It must be a cloudless day?'

'Yeah, pretty much so,' Kirk said. Spock could tell from his voice that he had turned his head towards where he suspected the windows to be. So that much was settled. They were in a room with windows.

'But windy. I think I can hear wind in the trees.'

'Maybe,' Kirk nodded. 'We're just above the tree-tops, and I don't think _they_'ll be very happy if I start standing at the window. I can see a wind-turbine going at a fair lick on the building opposite though.'

Spock raised his eyebrow at the amount of information he had garnered from that one statement. They _were_ above the first floor level, they were reasonably close to another building, and there was a wind-turbine on top of it. Perhaps there were wind-turbines on every building, but if not the information could be vital. He considered asking the boy what the name of the school was, but he could already sense the suspicion from their captors. Asking innocent seeming questions about the view was one thing, but asking for concrete names and places was quite another.

'This is a physics lab, is it not?' he asked. The fact he could not smell chemicals and that there were the correct tools to fix the replicator pointed toward that fact.

'Hey!' Brown said suddenly. 'You're asking too many questions. What does it matter what kind of lab it is?'

Spock raised an eyebrow. He didn't want to give an emotional excuse, but it was one this man might understand. 'I am almost totally blind, sir,' he said coolly. 'Is it beyond you to imagine that I might wish for some description of totally unfamiliar surroundings?'

'Maybe so – but you're too sharp,' he said, moving closer. 'I'd rather you were kept in the dark. You're fixing that replicator. If you want to ask questions, ask about that.'

Spock pressed his lips together, then turned back to the replicator. 'Francis, what progress have you made?' he asked quietly.

'Capacitor's back in,' he muttered, sounding as if there was something held between his lips. 'Just – ' His voice suddenly became clearer. 'Just fixing the connection to the primary power switch. We – are in a physics lab,' he added in an undertone. 'It's the Advanced Study lab. I take classes here three times a week. And – I'm sorry you can't see.'

'It cannot be helped,' Spock said truthfully. 'If you have reattached the primary power switch, we should be finished,' he said. 'Unless I have overlooked something?'

There was a long pause, and Spock could feel the boy's focus and concentration increasing. Then he said, 'Nope, I think that's all fixed.'

Spock nodded, standing so he could run his hands over the front of the unit, reassuring himself that the control mechanisms were not damaged as well.

'Then perhaps you could attach it to the power supply and attempt a replication?'

'Yep, hang on,' he muttered, manoeuvring the unit across the desk. 'Better stand back – it might spark…'

'Perhaps the captain should – ' Spock began, moving cautiously backwards until his hands touched the next bench behind him.

'No, it's fine,' the boy said. A low electrical hum began simultaneously with the sound of a plug clicking into its socket. 'We should try some replications.'

Spock nodded, then turned to Jim. 'Captain, perhaps you and Francis could attend to that? I have found this process – quite tiring.'

'Of course,' Kirk said understandingly. 'You sit there for a bit, Mr Spock. Rest.'

Spock nodded, grateful that his excuse was accepted without question. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and focussed his thoughts again on that mind that sought his own mind out.

******

On the bench in the warm sunshine McCoy watched his head nurse intently, trying to work out what might be going on in her mind. Vulcan melding techniques had always made him uncomfortable, and the vacant look on Christine's face did nothing to dispel that feeling. He held out a scanner towards her, watching the readings as they came up. Pulse – slow. Breathing – slow. Brain activity – feverishly fast… No wonder Spock went on so often about the dangers of the meld with minds that were not Vulcan.

'Christine,' he said finally, in a low voice. She seemed not to hear him, and he put a hand on her arm, shaking her lightly, and saying forcefully, 'Nurse Chapel, report.'

She uttered a startled, 'Oh,' blinking slowly, before her eyes drifted closed again.

'Christine, have you got him?' McCoy insisted.

'He's – not alone,' she began slowly, as if she was talking in a dream. 'Three men – angry men – and the captain, and a teenaged boy. The boy's not a threat. The men have - phasers, and – some more physical weapons – perhaps a makeshift club or something. Brown, Artois, Shelley.' She was silent, then continued, 'He thinks they're in a school building. He's pretty certain of that. He's in a physics lab with wooden desks and chairs. There's sunlight coming in from his left – it's warm as well as lighter. The captain says it's almost cloudless. They're on the second or third floor – just above the tree-tops, the captain says.'

'Are they even in this city?' McCoy asked, suddenly realising how big their task could be if the hostage-takers had access to transport.

Her forehead furrowed for a moment, then she said, 'He – thinks it's most likely, but they were both unconscious when they were brought there. It's – it seems to be the same time of day. He thinks the brightness of the sun there would correspond to what we can see. The captain says there's a building opposite with a wind-turbine on top of it. Oh…' She shook her head, uttering a noise of frustration.

'What is it, Chris?' McCoy asked.

'I'm – no – _he's_ frustrated, because he can't help but put an image to the things he's describing, and he knows it can't be the right image,' she said. 'He's afraid it's going to confuse matters. It's – it's odd. The classroom in his mind has Vulcan writing on the board…' She turned her head slightly, looking as if she was trying to recall a stray memory. 'He's trying to shut down his visualisation, but – it's part of how he's communicating to me. He's giving me images and feelings…'

McCoy put a hand on her arm reassuringly. 'Just – tell him he's doing well,' he said, suddenly struck with a surge of affection for both the Vulcan and the woman beside him. 'Tell him to keep trying. Let us know all he can.'

******

The trial of the replicator was met with startling success. Better even than scavenging around for suitable material to put into the matter converter, Francis had disappeared into the school's kitchens for ten minutes and come back with a bag of replicator pellets – completely inedible in their raw state, but with all of the precise elements needed to produce human food by replication. He had filled up the hopper with pellets, shut the cover, and picked up the first of a stack of discs he had found.

'Would you like to, sir?' he asked Kirk a little diffidently, offering him a bright yellow disc. He had struck up a remarkably good working relationship with Spock, but he still seemed nervous of the good looking, charismatic starship captain. 'It's just something simple, for testing.'

'Of course,' Kirk said with a smile, touching the necessary buttons, and waiting as the hum built and faded away. He opened the hatch and took out a plate containing nothing more than a crusty bread roll – but it was the most perfect bread roll Kirk had ever seen. He picked it up, and split it in his hands, forgetting for a moment that they had rebuilt the replicator at phaserpoint and only caring that they had _*done*_ it. The roll was still a little warm from the processing, and smelt of fresh baked bread. He turned to Spock with a smile on his face. 'Spock, you did it! It works perfectly!'

The Vulcan did not respond, and Kirk stared at him for a moment, then asked, 'Spock, are you all right?'

Still there was no response. Spock simply sat on the chair, his face slack, eyes closed, his chest moving lightly up and down as he breathed. Kirk put the bread roll back down on the plate, and touched Spock's shoulder. Still he didn't respond.

Francis turned to look at him too now. 'Is he – asleep?' he asked curiously. 'Is that how Vulcans sleep?'

Kirk looked at the boy, then looked quickly over towards their captors. Brown and Shelley were sitting together at a table, playing some kind of card game with cards they had made out of the paper from text books. Artois was looking their way, though, his eyes narrowing. He stood up as Kirk looked over, moving across the room with the look of a cat stalking its next meal.

'What's he doing?' Artois asked, suspicion flooding his face. He stalked closer to the Vulcan, staring at him.

'He's resting,' Kirk said tartly.

All the same, he glanced at Spock again in concern, aware that the look on his face indicated something far different to resting. The only times he had seen a look like that before was when he was engaged in the Vulcan mind meld. This time, however, Spock was touching no one, moving his long fingers on no one's face. His hands were resting on his knees, almost totally relaxed, but for a slight tension about the knuckles. His face was blank, his eyelids unnaturally slack, but, like his hands, Kirk could see the hints of a tension in his lips, as if they were pressed together in concentration.

'What's he doing?' Artois repeated, moving closer. He had left his phaser on the teacher's desk at the front of the classroom, but his eyes lit upon a laser cutter on the workbench, and he picked it up, holding it tensely in his right hand. 'Hey!' he said sharply, shaking at Spock's shoulder. 'Snap out of it!'

Spock inhaled suddenly, his eyes snapping open, and he gasped as if he had just surfaced from the depths of the ocean.

'What was that?' Artois asked aggressively, turning the laser cutter towards Spock's face, his thumb moving nervously on the control dial.

The Vulcan seemed dazed. He moved his lips, but he didn't speak. Kirk realised he was barely aware of the seriousness of the situation. He didn't seem to realise precisely where he was, and he certainly could not be aware of the laser cutter inches from his face.

'Get away from him,' Kirk said in a growl, barging Artois sideways with his shoulder. The thought flicked through his mind that this could be an opportunity to turn the tables – grab the cutter and hold Artois as Artois had been holding them, before Brown and Shelley realised what was happening. But abruptly pain seared through his body, and he only connected it with the cutter that Artois held as he collapsed to the floor, the pain causing everything else to blank out around him.

Spock leapt to his feet, coming out of the meld-induced haze as if he had been slapped, turning towards Kirk just as Brown and Shelley closed the gap across the room and grabbed him from behind. He was not entirely certain what had just happened – all he could be sure of was that Jim was gravely injured, and unresponsive, and that he needed help, urgently.


	11. Chapter 11

11.

Chapel's eyes opened wide, and she stared at McCoy in sudden bewilderment, her mouth working before she seemed able to speak. McCoy's scanner was already warbling, taking stock of her readings, but it didn't take the scanner to tell her that her heart was pounding abnormally hard against her ribs. The quiet, sun-drenched expanse around her didn't seem real after the odd, half-blind sensations from Spock's mind. The sudden emptiness in her mind had left her feeling almost bereaved.

'He's – he's gone,' she said in a dazed voice. 'Something happened – to the captain, I think. They're in trouble.'

'What is it?' McCoy asked urgently. 'What happened?'

'I don't know,' she said desperately. '_*Spock*_ doesn't know. But he just – broke off. He felt – extreme worry – for the captain, then he broke off.'

'We need to get the information he gave you to Commander Giotto,' McCoy said decisively, looking about himself briefly to see if any of the security men were in sight. The place was deserted, so he got to his feet, then looked back at Chapel, who was still sitting dazedly on the bench. 'Christine,' he said firmly. 'We need to find Giotto.'

She looked up at him jerkily, then nodded, pressing her hands against the wooden slats of the bench as much to reconnect herself with reality as to push herself up. McCoy helped her to stand, watching her closely before letting go of her arm. She seemed shaky for a moment, but then she looked at him and gave him a small nod.

'I'm over it,' she said in a firm voice. 'It was just a shock, it ending so quickly.'

'Come on,' he said, beginning to jog back towards the spot where they had last seen Giotto. He flipped his communicator open as he ran across the empty plaza, snapping, 'McCoy to Giotto.'

'Giotto,' the man answered instantly. 'Do you need help, Doctor?'

'We might know where they are,' McCoy said swiftly. 'Can you meet us back at the beam down point?'

'I'm no more than a minute away,' the man said crisply. 'Giotto out.'

McCoy snapped the communicator shut and slapped it back to his hip, meeting Chapel's eyes. 'Don't worry,' he said softly. 'I may not always get on with Giotto, but he's damn good at his job. He'll find them.'

Not more than thirty seconds had passed before Giotto came pounding out of a building a hundred yards away, his phaser grasped firmly in one hand. He reached the two blue-clad medical officers and stopped, not even panting after his burst of exertion.

'All right,' he said swiftly. 'What did you find out?'

'A description of the place where they're being held,' McCoy replied. 'We don't know exactly where it is, but we might be able to pin it down. But the captain's in trouble – we need to get to them fast.'

'Sir, may I ask how you know this?' Giotto asked dubiously.

McCoy hesitated awkwardly for a moment, but he would have to give an explanation in order to make Giotto take him seriously. He glanced at Chapel, an unspoken promise passing between them that he would try to avoid mentioning her relationship with Spock.

'Spock,' he said, and Giotto stared at him, puzzled. 'You know that Vulcans are telepathic,' he began, and Giotto nodded. 'Well, it is possible for – close friends, and people he's melded with in the past – to gain an awareness of his mind if he allows it.'

'And – he's given you an awareness of where he is?' Giotto asked sceptically. 'Sir, I don't need to remind you that Mr Spock can't see at the moment.'

'No, but he has other senses, and the captain is there to relay things to him,' McCoy replied, glossing over the fact that Giotto believed it was *_him*_ who was sensing Spock's mind.

'I'm not sure I believe in all this mumbo-jumbo,' Giotto said honestly. 'Can we rely on it, Doctor?'

McCoy arched an eyebrow at him. 'You may not *_believe*_ in it, Commander – but it's a scientific fact. Now, every second we argue about this the captain's life may be in danger.'

Giotto stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, and said, 'And the description of where he is?'

'A school building,' McCoy said confidently. 'Probably in this area. They're on the second or third floor, in a physics lab. There's a building opposite with a wind turbine on the roof, and – '

He broke off, realising that Giotto was no longer looking at him, but staring over his shoulder.

'You mean, a school building like that,' he said, pointing.

McCoy spun. Just a hundred yards away, across the end of a wide street, he could see a huge, triangular, revolving sign bearing the words, 'New Anglia High School.' His view of most of the building behind it was obscured by a long, low office block – and on top of that office block a wind turbine turned serenely in the breeze, sunshine glinting off its sleek metal blades.

******

Jim was unconscious. That was about the only thing of which Spock could be certain. He could sense no conscious thoughts at all from his captain's mind. He struggled again against the hands holding him, almost expecting them to relent and let go – but they did not. With a surge of unabashed fury Spock wrenched himself free, only just holding himself back from severely injuring his captors in the process. He knelt down, reaching out for Kirk's chest and wrist simultaneously, feeling for a heartbeat or pulse.

'He's alive,' he said in a falsely calm voice. 'But he needs help. He is in shock.'

Spock's sudden burst of action seemed to have snapped the others in the room out of their shocked paralysis.

'What the hell did you do that for?' Brown asked Artois in a panicked voice. 'You could've killed him!'

'Where is he bleeding?' Spock asked from his place on the floor. He could smell the strong tang of iron-based blood in the air. Kirk began to stir under his hand, and he pressured firmly on the captain's shoulder, trying to keep him still and quiet. For Kirk to have passed out from the pain or shock it had to have been a serious injury.

'He tried to attack me – ' Artois started, ignoring Spock.

'*_Where is he bleeding?_*' Spock asked again, in a voice that was not much louder, but had enough force in it to instantly cut through the argument going on about him.

'From his leg – his thigh,' Shelley said quickly. 'It's bright red, spurting. That means an artery, doesn't it?'

Spock closed his eyes, a ripple of emotion passing through his face.

'Help me remove his trousers – we can use the fabric.' After a moment of silence, he said in that forceful voice again, '*_Help me_*, or he will bleed to death.'

The silence continued for another beat, then Brown snapped, 'Jed, See if you can find that doctor.'

'There is a doctor here?' Spock asked, lifting his head, but he was ignored again. The question was rhetorical anyway – presumably they *_did_* have a doctor here. He ripped the bandage from his broken finger, hoping to gain more manoeuvrability in that hand without it. He began to unfasten Kirk's trousers, hurriedly stripping them off and tearing one of the legs from the rest of the fabric. Kirk moaned softly, and Spock said firmly, 'Jim, lie still. I am helping you.'

'He's looking after our people,' Artois hissed over his head. 'He's looking after *_Leslie_*. I won't have him – '

'If Kirk dies, there'll be hell to pay,' Brown snapped back. 'What do you think you get for murdering a Starfleet Captain nowadays? Mental retuning? Life in a Fed prison, maybe?'

Spock ignored them, folding the torn fabric into a thick pad. 'Francis, help me,' he said in a low voice, sensing the boy very near to him. 'Where is the wound?'

'Here – right here,' Francis said, guiding his hands to halfway up Kirk's inner thigh and helping him to press the pad it firmly over what was obviously a severe wound.

Spock pressed his weight down on the pad. The men around him seemed to be holding their breaths, waiting to see what would happen. He had no doubt that the injury, however it had been caused, had at least in part been an accident.

'What injured the captain?' he asked, not turning his head away from Kirk.

'A laser cutter,' Francis murmured.

'I didn't try to – ' Artois began defensively. 'He grabbed my hand. My thumb was on the switch…'

'That is irrelevant,' Spock said flatly. 'The wound will be clean, at least. Is the damage confined to his thigh?'

'Yeah, I think so,' Francis told him. 'He's lucky it didn't go higher.'

'Illogical as the concept may be, Captain Kirk does seem to be blessed with an inordinate amount of luck,' Spock nodded. He frowned. The pad under his hands was soaked with blood, and still blood was seeping from between his fingers and dripping onto the floor. 'This is not working,' he said flatly. 'He needs a tourniquet. Francis, put a firm pressure on this pad for me.'

'Of course,' the boy murmured, and he slipped his hands under Spock's as Spock moved his away. 'Do you think you can – ?'

'I have had a certain amount of medical training,' Spock nodded, although he imagined the boy's question had more to do with his blindness than with his level of first aid experience. He felt for the rest of the ruined trousers, and tore a long strip from the remaining leg. 'We need to bind this above the wound,' he said. 'Help me position it. Keep one hand on the pad.'

He began to ease the band of fabric under Kirk's leg, conscious of the pain he was causing to his friend just by touching him. Francis's hand touched his as he moved, ready to help him pull the band into position. He was concentrating intently on what he was doing, but he could feel Francis's squeamish nervousness through the contact, and a part of his mind was also very alert to what the men above him were saying.

'Go and get the doctor, Jed,' Shelley was saying firmly to Artois. 'He's not tending to sick right at this moment. No one down there's critical. There's not so much he can do anyway – you know he said that. He's not used to that kind of medicine…'

'Frankie, you go,' Artois said suddenly, turning to the frightened boy.

Francis didn't respond, he was focussed so intently on helping the Vulcan. 'That's it, there,' he muttered to Spock as they pulled the strip of fabric up to the junction of Kirk's leg and hip. 'Tie it there.'

Spock nodded briefly, winding the bandage around the leg two more times before he tied off the strip, and then tying another knot a little further along the loose ends.

'Give me my cane,' he said, and the boy did so without question. Spock pushed the folded cane between the two knots, and began to twist the tourniquet tighter and tighter. 'Lift the pad,' he said. 'Is he still bleeding?'

There was a moment of silence, then the boy said, 'It's eased, I think'

'I can take it now,' Spock said, keeping one hand on the cane to keep the tension, and feeling for Francis's hand on the pad.

'*_Frankie_*,' Artois repeated, and Francis stepped away from Spock as the Vulcan slipped his other hand over the pad.

'I'm going,' the boy said, leaving the room at a run.

'And get that damn Starfleet top off him,' Artois continued to the others as the boy left. 'I won't have that doctor talking… Get the Vulcan into that room.'

Spock suddenly felt the muzzle of a phaser touching his back, and he stiffened.

'I cannot leave the captain,' he said in a level voice.

'You _*will_* leave the captain,' Artois replied softly. 'And you will stay absolutely silent, or _*someone_* will die. I don't know whether it will be you, or him – but _*someone_* will die.'

Spock pressed his lips together. He had done all he could for Jim, but he was highly reluctant to leave him alone with these men.

'Someone will have to hold this tight and keep pressure on the wound, until you have found the doctor,' he said without moving.

'I can do that,' Shelley said, kneeling down beside him.

'If you cannot find the doctor, you will let me tend to the captain again,' Spock said, in a tone that made it a statement rather than a question.

'We don't want him to die any more than you do,' Shelley said grimly.

Spock raised an eyebrow. He could not imagine that these men's interest in Kirk's continued life was stronger than his own. But he let Shelley's hands slip into the place of his, and stood up slowly. If he was going to trust any of these men to take care of Jim, Shelley at least seemed the most stable of the three. A hand grasped his arm from behind, steering him forcefully around and forwards towards the storeroom that he and Kirk had woken up in hours earlier.

******

Kirk lay still on the floor, not conscious of much more than the searing waves of pain radiating from his thigh. His only other thought at that moment was an intense jealousy of Spock's pain control techniques. But perhaps…

He focussed himself carefully, thinking to himself as he had heard Spock say, _*There is no pain*_. He tried to feel other things – like the odd creeping numbness and aching where Spock had tied the tourniquet, and the fact that the rest of his body felt relatively well.

Then, barely conscious that he was speaking aloud, he said forcefully, 'Dammit, there _*is_* pain…'

'You'd expect it to hurt,' a calm male voice said near his face. 'You've severed the femoral artery and two or three muscles in your thigh. Don't ask me to name them – I don't remember most of my anatomy as well as I should. But that pain's telling you something.'

'Is it?' Kirk murmured, wondering briefly when the _Enterprise_ had gained another doctor, and one who freely admitted remembering so little about human anatomy. He would have to talk to Bones about –

'*_Yes_*,' the man said in a firm, quiet tone. 'It's telling you it's downright idiotic to get in a fight about replicator rations, especially with a man with a temper like Jed Artois. Now, if you'll just lie still – '

Kirk's eyes snapped open abruptly as he remembered precisely where he was and what had happened. Francis was kneeling behind him, his face looming upsidedown over him, and the boy gave him a wan but encouraging smile. The doctor tending to him, a dark-haired, middle-aged man, had his gaze focussed entirely on the point in Kirk's thigh that throbbed with pain. Kirk opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes fell on Brown standing behind the kneeling doctor. Brown was holding a jumper in his hand, but the rounded end of a phaser just showed through a fold in the material. Brown flicked his eyes to the store room door, then back at Kirk, and Kirk pressed his lips closed again. Spock was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Artois. He had to assume that Artois was in the storeroom, threatening Spock in the same way that Brown was threatening him to keep him quiet.

'I'd give you something for the pain,' the doctor continued, 'but – '

'There isn't a painkiller left on this whole damn planet,' Kirk finished for him with a faint smile.

'Precisely. I'm going to take this tourniquet off now,' the doctor told him clearly. 'I've mended the artery, at least. I'll leave the muscles until you can get some better treatment, otherwise you could have permanent trouble there. It might feel a bit strange as the blood comes back in, though.'

Kirk nodded mutely, thinking that it could not feel much stranger than it did now, with the mixture of sharp pain and odd numbness.

'Where'd this come from?' the doctor asked in a tone of light curiosity, as he extracted the cane from the tight twist of the tourniquet. 'I haven't seen anyone with visual impairments since I came to this place.'

Kirk parted his lips, but he didn't know what to say. Brown was still pointing the phaser at him. He closed his mouth again, shaking his head wearily. Seeing the cane just redoubled his concern for Spock.

'I'm sorry – I suppose you neither know nor care where it came from,' the doctor said, pressing a hand to his shoulder reassuringly. 'Listen, you'll have to lie still for a few more minutes while I get a bandage on this wound, then we can try to get you more comfortable, somewhere else.'

'Somewhere else?' Kirk echoed, at the same moment that Brown's expression became even more grim.

'Oh, of course, the beds in the nurse's room are being used,' the doctor muttered, opening his bag and rummaging through the contents. He drew out a thick roll of bandage, and removed the transparent wrapping. 'Well, I'm sure we can make you comfortable here.'

'I'm sure,' Kirk nodded, unable to keep sarcasm from his voice as he looked at the hard wooden benches and chairs around him.

'You know, you look very familiar,' the doctor said as he began to wrap clean white bandage about the wound. Kirk winced as the man lifted his leg a little, but he had resolved to suffer the inevitable pain in silence. It was getting harder as pins and needles merged into nerve-itching cramps as his leg revived. 'Have we met before?'

'I don't think so,' Kirk said, then suddenly thought, 'Oh, but my brother works – worked – ' He caught Brown's eyes, and trailed off. 'No, we haven't met,' he finished, his tone edging into sullen.

'I'm sure – ' the doctor began, then said suddenly, 'You look just like George – '

And the door burst open, admitting what seemed to be a horde of red-shirted _Enterprise_ security men. Phasers fired almost instantly, and both Shelley and Brown crumpled to the floor as the bright bursts of energy swelled through their bodies.

'No, don't shoot,' Kirk snapped quickly, holding up a hand as he saw the phasers turning towards the doctor and Francis, who still knelt beside him. Although the security men were obviously eager to continue their job, they were reluctant to fire on bodies so close to the captain. 'They're friends.' He flicked his gaze quickly to Francis, and asked him, 'I'm guessing you _*are_* a friend, Francis?'

'Yeah, I guess,' he smiled, looking nervous all the same. 'I stuck with them cos there was nowhere else to go – but I didn't expect them to start kidnapping people…'

'Jim!' a voice hissed, and McCoy pushed through the crowd of security men, Chapel just behind him. His face changed from concern to downright shock as he saw the amount of blood on the floor and spattered and smeared around where Kirk lay. 'Are you all right? What happened?'

'I'm fine – this gentleman's a doctor,' Kirk said quickly, indicating the man beside him. It was obvious that he was in pain, but a moment's pass of the scanner told McCoy that Jim was not in any immediate danger.

McCoy looked around quickly, then back to the pool of blood, noting that at least there was no green mixed in with the red. 'Where's Spock?'

'In there,' Kirk said, nodding his head towards the storeroom door. Luckily the security team's entry had been relatively swift and quiet, and the sounds seemed not to have penetrated into the storeroom. 'But he's not alone,' he said, turning his attention to Giotto now, who stood above him with his phaser still held ready to use. 'Man by the name of Artois. I'd say he's pretty unstable.'

'All right – every one try to stay quiet,' Giotto said swiftly in a low tone. 'I'll open it. Jones, Matthews,' he said, gesturing to two of his men. 'Back me up.'

And without further hesitation he moved to the door at the other side of the room. McCoy took one more look at Kirk to be sure that he didn't need urgent help, then followed the two red-shirted subordinates. Giotto scanned through the door with his tricorder, then stood for a moment with his ear against the panel. Then he straightened, touched the handle, and in one swift movement opened the door and fired. There was the thud of a body hitting the floor, and Giotto pushed the door open to its widest.

McCoy pushed past him, instantly taking in the sight of a thin, wiry man unconscious on the tiles, and Spock tied up on the floor at the edge of the room, looking more alert and on edge than he had ever seen him in his life. His blue shirt had been torn into strips, some of which bound his hands tightly to the metal shelves beside him. Another strip had been tied firmly about his head, holding in a ball of the torn fabric that had been stuffed deep into his mouth to prevent him from calling out.

'It's all right, Spock, it's us,' McCoy said swiftly.

Even as McCoy moved towards him, Chapel pushed past him with an determination that he dared not argue with, and knelt beside the Vulcan, her eyes seemingly taking in every inch of him with more intensity than a medical scanner.

'Are you hurt?' she asked instantly, her voice admirably steady, and Spock shook his head mutely. She was drawing scissors out of her medical kit even as she spoke, and began to cut at the fabric tied about his head.

McCoy bounced on his toes for a moment, torn between Spock, who seemed to be shaken but unhurt, and Jim, who was obviously more severely wounded.

'Spock, Jim's all right,' he told him, 'but I need to get back to him. I have to – '

Chapel had just prised the fabric out of Spock's mouth with her fingernails, and as Spock gained the ability to speak he said swiftly, 'Go, Doctor. I will be fine.'

McCoy stared at him for one more long moment, then nodded, and said, 'All right, Spock. Christine, do something about that finger on his right hand – it looks broken.'

He turned away from Spock before he could think twice, and went swiftly back to where Kirk was explaining what had just happened to the bemused doctor beside him.

'Spock's fine. What happened to you, Jim?' he asked quickly, glancing at the other doctor, and then back at his captain.

'A struggle with a laser cutter,' Kirk said succinctly. 'I managed to push his hand down, but it went off by accident – went straight through my leg. Severed the femoral artery, by all accounts. Spock managed to staunch it until the good doctor here arrived.'

'And you've closed the wound?' McCoy asked, looking at the other doctor. 'I'm Dr McCoy, by the way – Chief Medical Officer on the _Enterprise_.'

'Oh, I'd heard it was the _Enterprise_ that came to our aid,' the man nodded, looking as if light was suddenly dawning. He looked at Kirk. 'Then you're – You *_are_* related to George Kirk?'

'Captain James Kirk,' Kirk nodded, a half-smile touching his lips. He had almost forgotten that Sam was not his brother's first name. In an odd way it gave him comfort to know that if his brother's name was going to trip so lightly off people's tongues, it would not be the name that belonged to *_his_* tongue. 'George – was my brother.'

'Was,' the doctor echoed. That had become a common enough word on Deneva to not need to question the captain further. He shook his head, turning back to McCoy. 'I'm sorry, you were asking me about the wound. I've healed the tear in the femoral artery. I haven't attempted the muscle damage with the available equipment, in these non-sterile conditions.'

'Good – we can deal with that on the _Enterprise_,' McCoy nodded. 'Would you like to finish off this dressing, Doctor – er – '

As McCoy hesitated the man said, 'Oh, of course – I'm sorry. Dr Helsand,' extending his hand in greeting.

'Well, Dr Helsand, if you want to finish,' McCoy repeated. 'Continuity of care, and all that, since you were – ' He broke off abruptly, staring at the man. 'Doctor – Helsand?' he asked. 'Dr Mark Helsand?'

'Yes,' the man said with a bewildered smile. 'I didn't expect my name to be known by people out of the field – '

But McCoy had already turned away from him, looking toward the storeroom where Chapel was still attending to Spock, with a curiously eager expression on his face.

'Spock,' he called urgently, '*_Spock!*_'

Almost instantly Spock appeared at the door, Chapel gripping his forearm and holding a roll of white tape that seemed to be attached to his hand, obviously trying to stop him moving while she attended to his finger.

'Just a few more seconds,' she protested.

'That is enough,' Spock said firmly, moving her hand aside and tearing the tape off from the roll. 'Doctor, what is the matter? Is the captain – '

'Jim's fine, Spock,' McCoy said, hurrying across the room to him. 'Spock, I want you to meet someone.'

'Doctor, this is hardly the time,' Spock began in exasperation, turning his head as Nurse Chapel took hold of his hand again and started trying to bind his broken finger back to the sound one next to it. 'Christine, I assure you – '

'*_Spock*_,' McCoy said more firmly. 'I'd like for you to come and meet Dr Mark Helsand.'

Chapel abruptly released Spock's hand. Spock stepped forward slowly, reaching out wordlessly for McCoy's arm.

'Help me, Doctor,' he said to McCoy, but Helsand was already coming across the room towards him.

'You – have trouble with your eyes, sir,' Helsand said in a curious tone. 'And the cane that was used to tighten the tourniquet – '

'Was mine,' Spock nodded. An odd, tight expression had come over his face at the mention of the doctor's name. 'You are Dr Helsand?'

'Yes, I am,' Helsand nodded, still with that curious tone. He was studying Spock's face and bearing intently, as if he was trying to work out what degree of blindness he was suffering.

'Spock has a half-human, half-Vulcan genetic make-up,' McCoy said succinctly. 'He was infected here on Deneva. We treated him with one million candlepower per square inch of white light to rid him of the parasite. His inner eyelids closed to try to protect him, but the light was so intense that it damaged them – it burnt them into his eyes. He was left with no more than a very little light perception.'

'Doctor, I take it from your reaction that you know what I am?' Dr Helsand asked him carefully.

'You are an ophthalmologist, recently specialising in the study of the inner eyelid in Vulcanoids,' Spock said before McCoy could speak. 'We have been looking for you, Dr Helsand. Your wife told us – '

'My wife's – alive?' the doctor asked, almost in disbelief.

'Your wife and your daughter,' McCoy nodded with a smile. 'They're both just fine. They're on the ship.'

'On the _Enterprise_?' the man asked, glancing up as if he would be able to see the great white ship above him. He abruptly looked back to where Kirk lay. The captain was listening to every word, but it was obvious from the pale, tight expression on his face that he was still suffering from pain and blood loss. 'Dr McCoy, I think for all our sakes – not least your poor captain – we should beam up as soon as possible. We have a lot to discuss.'


	12. Chapter 12

12.

'I don't know how you can stand waiting,' Christine Chapel murmured as she plied a bone-knitter up and down Spock's finger, glancing at the live scan at regular intervals to be sure that the bones stayed in alignment.

'I am Vulcan,' Spock said calmly, a muted look of amusement on his face at Christine's inability to control her impatience. 'I have practised mental discipline surpassing the restraint of minor emotions for over three decades. Dr Helsand, like you, is human. He believed his wife and child to be dead. I am content to wait to speak to him regarding my sight.'

Christine paused in her ministrations, and Spock could feel her gazing at him. He allowed himself a moment of sentimentality, seeing in his mind her blue eyes and the bronze-gold waves of her hair about her face. He did not admit to the spark of impatience deep within him to find out if he would be permitted to see that in more than imagination. It was something that he could control with much more ease that she was obviously experiencing.

'I'd just want to – _*know_*,' she said helplessly.

Spock raised an eyebrow. 'It is highly unlikely that we will know anything for certain after one consultation, and even less likely that anything will result from that consultation for some time.'

'No, I know,' she said sadly. 'I _*do_* know that. I've been a nurse for long enough…'

'That is why it is best to put all thoughts of it aside, and concentrate only on our present duties,' Spock reminded her. 'Have you finished with my hand, Christine?'

She glanced up at the scan again, seeing that the lines of fracture were only evident as hair-like lines across the bone now.

'Almost,' she said, putting the bone-knitter down and tending to the external cuts and bruises that the rock had caused. 'There,' she said finally, sealing a white dressing over the finger. 'Take care of it – it'll be fragile and feel bruised for a few days. Since you can't see, I want you to have the cuts checked every day. You can pick up odd bacteria from alien soil. And what about this on your forehead?' she asked, carefully peeling back the dressing that Kirk had applied so many hours ago. 'Let me guess – a sharp corner at head height – a wall cupboard?'

'Very perceptive,' Spock replied, raising an eyebrow. 'I did not realise you were so proficient at forensics.'

'It's a classic, angular shape,' she murmured, carefully lifting the dried blood away with a wet swab. 'Not like a wound caused by violence. I saw plenty of them at Dekalan.'

'Of course,' Spock nodded. He felt a discomfort that he did not want to admit to every time his situation was placed alongside all those other cases of blindness in the galaxy. He heartily _*did not_* want to become just another part of that particular demographic. 'It was an open cupboard door in the captain's brother's home.'

'I see. And you didn't lose consciousness at any time?'

'I did not,' Spock said.

'Well, it doesn't need stitching,' she told him, touching the cut gently. 'I'll just put some cream on it to help with the bruising, and re-cover it for you.'

'And then you will be done?' Spock asked quickly.

'And then I'll be done,' she nodded. She looked at him in amusement as he turned his ear toward the examination room, where Kirk was having his leg treated and his head wound seen to. 'I – er – thought you could suppress minor emotions like impatience?' she asked him softly.

Spock turned his head sharply back towards her, raising an eyebrow. 'It is quite logical to be concerned about one's commanding officer,' he said.

'It's also quite human,' she smiled. 'There,' she said, pressing a dressing over the cut and turning to wash her hands. 'You can go check on the captain now. You're all done.'

'Thank you, Christine,' Spock nodded, getting to his feet. He turned towards the door, then asked, 'My cane – was it brought back to the ship?' He felt so much more intensely disabled without it.

'I'm not sure,' she said honestly. 'Here – take my arm, let me take you through to the captain, then I'll go look for it.'

'Thank you,' Spock murmured, reaching out to her arm. It was so much easier to take guidance from her when the only emotions involved in the contact were a reciprocal sense of caring, instead of a medley of awkwardness and guilt.

Kirk had just been moved through to the ward as they entered, and Chapel took him over to the bed where the captain lay, before taking her leave of him with a soft touch on his arm, and returning to her duties about the ward.

'Doctor?' Spock asked curiously. It was frustrating not being able to take in Kirk's condition merely by glancing at his colour, and the monitor above the bed. He knew that the captain was conscious, because he had heard him speaking to McCoy, but he could glean no specifics of how well he was recovering from his injury.

'Minor concussion, with no serious repercussions,' McCoy said, sounding satisfied with the job he had just completed. 'The leg's the more severe injury. I've tidied up what Helsand did, and sealed the laceration. He's going to have to wear a support on it for a few weeks, and take it easy. But he'll be fine, Spock. Just fine. Your tourniquet saved his life.'

Spock nodded. 'I had presumed as much,' he said succinctly.

There was a pause, which Spock knew McCoy would usually have filled with, _*Why, you pointed-eared, green-blooded_ – *, or some other similar, unfinished phrase. He could almost feel the doctor working out what he could say without the guilt he felt at Spock's blindness getting in the way.

'Well, no matter what logical motivations were behind it, I'm very grateful, Mr Spock,' Kirk said, breaking the silence in a voice that was only a little weaker than normal.

'It is not always easy to separate logical motives from emotional ones, when the aim is saving a life of a friend,' Spock said honestly, stepping a little closer to the bed where Jim lay. 'When will the captain be permitted to leave sickbay?' he asked McCoy, before the two men could give a reaction to his statement.

There was a pause, then McCoy said, 'I'd rather he stayed confined to bed for twenty-four hours. So, knowing Jim… I guess he'll be out by dinner tonight.'

'Have you made any arrangements for consultation with Dr Helsand, Doctor?' Spock asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

'Tonight, twenty hundred, in my office,' McCoy said succinctly. 'I'd like for you to be there. I guess he'll want to examine you as soon as possible.'

'Of course,' Spock nodded.

He moved back half a step as McCoy's medical scanner began warbling.

'Until then, Spock, I want to you to go to your quarters and rest,' McCoy said firmly. 'Both you and Jim are recovering from stun exhaustion. There's no need for you to be in sickbay for that, but you do need to take it easy.'

'Doctor, I assure you, I am quite recovered from the stun,' Spock began to protest.

'Shift's about to change,' McCoy continued innocently. 'In about – er – three minutes, I'm going to sit down, off duty, and enjoy a Altairan whisky with Jim. Nurse Chapel's going off duty too.'

Spock suppressed reaction. It was obvious that both Kirk and McCoy knew about his nascent relationship with Christine. There was very little logic in denying it, or hiding it behind closed doors. That did not make him any more comfortable in discussing it, however.

'Go on, Spock,' McCoy said kindly. 'I can see her from here, hovering in the anteroom, and there's only so long she can spend pretending to check the supplies in the cupboard there. Go let your hair down.'

Spock turned his head towards the doctor, beginning to ask quizzically, 'Let my – ?' before shaking his head, and turning back to the door.

Kirk watched him as he disappeared through the door, and smiled. 'Bones, I didn't know Cupid resided so firmly in your breast,' he said in an undertone, conscious of the Vulcan's excellent hearing.

'Well, I can't do anything but encourage it, Jim,' McCoy said, sounding a little self-conscious. 'It's certainly gone too far now for them to turn back – and besides – you can't really object to something that makes two separate crewmembers simultaneously happy.'

'That's true,' Kirk nodded, raising his voice to normal as the door to the corridor closed behind his First Officer and the ship's head nurse.

McCoy briefly checked the clock, then reached for a tray containing a bottle and two glasses from the shelf by the bed. He deftly uncorked the bottle and filled the glasses with the richly coloured whisky, then held one up to the light, briefly studying the distortions in the swirling amber liquid

'Altair's finest, Jim,' he said, handing the glass over to Kirk. 'I've had this at the back of the cupboard in my office for six months. It spent thirty years maturing in an Altairan wine-merchant's cellar before that.'

'What are we celebrating, Bones?' Kirk asked, raising the glass to his lips and letting a tiny amount of the liquid settle through his mouth. The burning taste at least helped to distract his mind from the dull throbbing in his bandaged left thigh.

'I don't know that we're celebrating anything yet, Jim,' McCoy said honestly. 'Apart from getting you two back safe from a hostage situation, of course. But I thought you could do with it. Call it – an unorthodox prescription.'

'I heartily approve of that type of prescription,' Kirk smiled. He took another sip, and then his face became serious. 'What about this Dr Helsand?' he asked curiously of McCoy. 'Do you think he'll be able to help Spock?'

McCoy sighed, shaking his head. 'I hope so, Jim. I really do. I've looked him up in my medical computer. He's renowned – at least in his circle. Prolific. Very well respected, very innovative. Of course, he's primarily a researcher, not a practitioner, but he's fully qualified…'

'And he has been studying the inner eyelid,' Kirk pointed out.

'Two years ago, yes,' McCoy nodded. 'Most importantly, he's actually had some surgical experience with it on Rigel. But Rigelians are not Vulcans – and Spock's not _*all_* Vulcan either.'

Kirk turned his glass in his hands, watching the liquid as it washed about the clear bowl, leaving a transparent residue that crept back towards the body of whisky as if magnetised to it. So many tiny, insignificant details of the visual world were lost to Spock now. He doubted that Spock would attach great importance to the ability to see whisky moving in a clear glass – but he knew that the Vulcan wanted with every cell of his being to be able to see such things.

'I hope to God he can help him,' he said finally. 'I hate it, Bones. I hate seeing Spock like that, knowing how much _*he_* hates it too. I would go to almost any lengths to get him his sight back.'

'And what if it's not possible, Jim?' McCoy asked plainly, setting his glass down on the ledge by the bed. 'If it turns out there's nothing that can be done, and you *_have*_ to keep seeing Spock like that?'

Kirk looked at him sharply. 'Then I get used to it. We all get used to it. We find some way of rearranging his place on the ship around the disability, and we support him for as long as he needs us. But I'm not going to give up on him until we _*know_* there's nothing that can be done.'

After a long moment, McCoy nodded. 'No,' he said. 'I'm not giving up on him either, Jim. I have to be realistic about his chances, but I can't accept that Spock's never going to fix me with one of those x-ray looks again. We'll just have to hear what Helsand says,' he shrugged. 'By ten tonight we should know a hell of a lot more than we do now.'

******

Spock stepped through the door of McCoy's office just as the minute hand on the clock clicked decisively to the twelve at the top. McCoy smiled at the sight of him, as punctual as he had ever been despite his inability to easily check the time against external sources. His smile faded a little as he saw the Vulcan's face, however. He had never, in all his time serving alongside Spock, seen him look so honestly nervous.

'Spock, come sit down,' he said quickly, getting to his feet and starting towards him.

Spock nodded stiffly, raising a hand to stop him from coming across the room.

'Thank you, Doctor. Unless you have rearranged your office, I don't need help.'

'Fair enough,' McCoy said amicably. 'I'm still waiting for Helsand.'

'Yes, I thought you were alone,' Spock nodded.

The Vulcan unfolded his recovered and scrupulously cleaned cane to feel for the chair he was making for. McCoy guessed that meant someone had brought him to the door – presumably Nurse Chapel – but he had obviously chosen to meet the doctor alone. Perhaps he was afraid of exposing his anxiety to anyone but those necessary to the meeting.

'Humans do not seem to value punctuality,' Spock said as he found the chair and sat down. 'Particularly doctors, I have observed.'

'We don't all carry clocks around in our heads,' McCoy said, keeping his tone as friendly as possible. It was obvious that Spock's worry was being transformed into ultra-Vulcanness, as it so often did, and he felt inclined, on this of all nights, to humour him. 'And here he is,' he said as the door hissed open. He stood up to greet the doctor who hurried through the door, smoothing his unruly hair with one hand as he entered.

'I'm sorry for my tardiness,' the man began. 'I was putting my little girl to bed.'

'Oh, that's fine,' McCoy said quickly, casting a glance at Spock, who had stood up as well. The Vulcan's face was unreadable.

'Dr Helsand,' Spock nodded as Helsand came across the room.

'Commander Spock,' Helsand replied crisply, looking the Vulcan up and down as if briefly assessing him as a patient. His gaze lingered for longer on Spock's eyes, and then broke away again. 'I imagine you want to get round to business without all the social niceties?' he asked with a smile.

'I would prefer that,' Spock said in a perfectly level voice.

'Understandable,' Helsand nodded, meeting McCoy's eyes as he spoke, a silent understanding of the Vulcan patient passing between them.

Of course, McCoy realised, Helsand must have dealt with plenty of Vulcans during his research into the inner eyelid. He must be quite used to their ways. Presumably he had also dealt with many people, Vulcan or not, who were blind and impatient to see.

'Then, if Dr McCoy doesn't mind, we can go straight into the examination room and I'll have a look at your eyes,' Helsand continued. 'The sooner I've seen the damage the sooner I can tell you if there's a chance of my techniques helping you. I assume you've set up your ophthalmological equipment?' he asked of McCoy.

'It's a permanent fixture at the moment,' McCoy said grimly, coming around the desk and gesturing towards the door. 'Shall we?'

It took only a few short minutes before Dr Helsand had adjusted the equipment to his preferences, and was looking closely through the scope in the darkened room. Spock was sitting unnaturally still on his chair, his face pressed against the scope, hands gripping uncharacteristically tightly on the sides of his seat. It was obvious he was listening intently to everything going on in the room, but he could not speak, for fear of moving against the eyepiece.

'Classic inner eyelid malfunction,' Helsand murmured as he switched from looking at the right eye to the left. 'Equal on both sides, obscuring all useful vision, letting through a minimum of light. You see here,' he said to McCoy, beckoning him to look through the scope himself. 'There should be a slight pearlescence to the membrane – a reflective quality. In this patient there's none of that. The membrane's fused into the clear surface of the pupil, the pearlescent cells are damaged and blackened, no longer reflecting light.'

'Yes, I see it,' McCoy murmured, bending to see what Helsand had described. 'It's just what I'd noted in all my examinations. But I didn't get the sense from the Vulcan healers that there _*was_* such a thing as classic inner eyelid malfunction,' he said curiously.

'There isn't, on Vulcan,' Helsand said, straightening up and swinging the scope away from Spock's face. 'You can relax now, Commander,' he said to the Vulcan. 'I've taken all the readings and images that I need for now. Can we have the lights up?' he asked McCoy, and the doctor touched a switch on the wall. Both he and Dr Helsand blinked in the sudden bright light. Spock did not react.

'As I was saying, you don't see this often on Vulcan,' Helsand continued. 'I believe the intense brightness of the Vulcan sun provokes far more use of the inner eyelid on that planet, and so it has evolved to be more effective. Commander Spock's inner eyelids don't appear to be quite normal, probably due to the human influence in his genome. They are rather thicker, and of a rather more reactive tissue type, than the majority of Vulcans'.'

'And you have seen similar problems in other species with the inner eyelid?' Spock asked curiously.

'Similar, yes,' Helsand nodded, reseating himself opposite Spock. 'Genetically, you are quite unique, Commander, but I have seen comparable symptoms in others. Of course, the majority of cases I've looked at have been congenital, but there have been a few cases of malfunction in later life.'

'What were the parameters of your study, Dr Helsand?' Spock asked curiously.

'The inner eyelid as affected by genetics,' Helsand said, a look of academic preoccupation coming over his face. 'I've been studying the way the treatment of the blind in different cultures has affected the evolution of the inner eyelid. Fascinating - _*fascinating_* - the way cultural stigma or acceptance can cause the medical problems of similar species to diverge so wildly. Do you know that in the Salarsians the inner eyelid has completely atrophied due to their practise of instantly banishing the blind to the mountain regions to survive as they may?'

'And on Vulcan,' Spock prompted, trying to distract the man from such disturbing subjects and recall him back to the more pertinent area of his own inner eyelids.

'Well, just as on Salar, the Vulcans didn't stand for weaknesses such as blindness, and so a large amount of problems with the eyelid were simply – evolved away.'

'Vulcans do not stigmatise the blind,' Spock pointed out. 'They have not done so for a number of centuries.'

'No,' Dr Helsand nodded. 'But that means very little in evolutionary terms. Two thousand or more years ago it was a different story. Those suffering visual impairment were cast aside, neglected, even put to death. Then there were the early logic reforms, post Surak, and it was deemed best that the disabled did not breed. It's only in the past five hundred years that your people have come to accept disability, Commander, and that, I'm afraid, is why your people are so hale and hearty.'

'Yes, I am aware of my planet's history,' Spock said in a rather quiet voice. It had been hard enough, different as he was, growing up on Vulcan, without the added stigma of blindness. Although the people as a whole did not discriminate, as individuals their prejudices could be quite stifling.

'Oh, believe me, Commander Spock, Vulcan is far from the worst,' Helsand reassured him. 'There are the Romulans, and the Helkarians – '

'I believe that the Romulans still have very little respect for those suffering disability,' Spock said flatly.

'And the Helkarians still tend to – cull – ' Helsand trailed off awkwardly.

'_*Kill_* would be the verb I'd use,' McCoy said angrily. This entire discussion was leaving him with a bad taste in his mouth.

'I – find it's hard to study the genetics of a culture if you're making moral judgements on them,' Helsand shrugged.

'Quite correct, Doctor,' Spock nodded.

'But anyway – that's irrelevant, to a point,' Helsand said. 'The Rigelians, Mr Spock, have a long history of caring for and accepting the blind as a viable part of the population. They also have an inner eyelid They have a fair amount of trouble with it. There's an inherited condition quite prevalent on Rigel – around one in every five hundred – where babies are born with the inner eyelid unfurled and fused inside the eye. Often it resolves naturally – but in a certain number of cases the child is left blind. But there are techniques – '

'Now, wait a minute,' McCoy cut across. He was deeply wary of anything that might raise Spock's hopes needlessly. 'Dr Sirkan of Vulcan said that there was nothing that could be done to separate the tissue so long after fusion.'

'Vulcan medical practitioners are well known for their adherence to doctrine,' Spock said in a level tone, his fingers steepled before his face. A large part of him wanted to tell McCoy to cease his interruptions and let Helsand speak, but he reined in his impatience, letting none of it reach his face.

'Yes, and they don't easily acknowledge the similarities between Rigelian and Vulcan biology,' Helsand added. 'Commander Spock, I'm not saying that I can definitely help you,' he said, turning very obviously to the Vulcan alone. 'Your problem is due to an extreme exposure to highly unusual magnitude of light, and your genetics are – unique, to say the least. I have never examined a case quite like it. But there is a chance that Rigelian techniques will work on you. I would need to give you a fuller examination, and work out which treatment, if any, would be best suited to your problem. If we decided to operate, it would be best to get you to facilities on Rigel, where they have specific centres set up for this type of ophthalmic surgery.'

'I see,' Spock said, but McCoy could recognise the pensive look on his face as he said it.

'I agree with Dr Helsand, Spock,' he said quickly. 'We just don't have the facilities on the ship for specialised eye surgery, and I doubt they have them on Deneva, either. It would mean waiting a little longer, but we have to give you the best chance.'

'Yes, I understand that, Doctor,' Spock nodded. He paused for a long moment, rubbing his thumb over his fingers in what McCoy recognised as a classic sign of worried preoccupation.

'What is it, Spock?' he asked.

Spock raised his head, saying slowly, 'My concern is that, once off the ship, Starfleet medical processes will not allow me back unless my sight is fully restored.'

'That's not going to happen, Spock,' McCoy said firmly, looking at Helsand for support. He could understand Spock's fear. The _Enterprise_ was the only home he had known for over a quarter of his life. Everything he had was centred here.

Helsand looked at Spock, then back at McCoy, before saying carefully, 'I think Commander Spock is right to be concerned. It is very easy for patients to lose control of their treatment when surrounded by doctors who know better – especially when the patient is blind.'

'Then we'll get cast iron guarantees from Starfleet first,' McCoy said firmly. 'If Dr Helsand can't help you, Spock, then it's pretty certain that you'll have to leave the ship for a short time, for rehabilitation training. I've looked into it, and there are some excellent places. You'd be there for about a month, but you'd come out almost completely proficient in everyday life. But we'll get all the guarantees we can that you'll come back to this ship when you've done that. I know from experience that you're perfectly good at holding your own against doctors, and as for regulations and Starfleet paper-pushing, you know they won't win a fight against Jim.'

'Your confidence in both me and the captain is admirable,' Spock said darkly. It was obvious to McCoy that Spock's own confidence was deeply shaken by his blindness. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave the familiar haven of the ship, no matter what the gain of leaving.

Helsand looked briefly between Spock and the doctor. 'I think we've done enough for tonight, gentlemen,' he said, getting to his feet and gathering up the discs of data he had taken. 'I need to study these scans, and there's no need for either of you to give up any more of your evening. Mr Spock, I will speak to you again tomorrow, take some biopsies, perhaps do a more detailed exam under sedative. I'll have a clearer idea then of how to proceed, and I can talk it through with you step by step.'

Spock nodded distractedly, barely acknowledging the man's 'Good night,' as he walked through the door and left the Vulcan and McCoy alone again.

'You go ahead, Doctor,' Spock said after a moment's silence, waving a hand towards the door. 'I would like to sit for a while.'

'You don't want to talk through this with someone?' McCoy asked amicably, resting his weight on the edge of his desk.

Spock raised his head. 'My options seem very plain, Doctor,' he said in a voice that was a little too loud and a little too steady. 'If Dr Helsand can carry out the surgery, it will be carried out on Rigel, at such a time as is convenient to both of us. After that, I will either return to the ship, or I – will not.'

'There are – emotional implications,' the doctor said carefully.

'They are irrelevant,' Spock said shortly.

McCoy opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. It was obvious that Spock was not in the mood to talk over the emotional implications of the possibility of his blindness being untreatable.

'You will inform the captain of Dr Helsand's opinion?' Spock said, tilting his head upwards. 'I've no doubt he will be interested.'

'You're not going to go see him now then?' McCoy began, then cut off, as a very slight tint of green touched the tips of the Vulcan's ears.

'No,' Spock said carefully. 'I have made – other arrangements.'

McCoy let a smile spread over his face, in the full awareness that had Spock been able to see him, he would have kept his emotional reaction firmly to himself, considering Spock's current sensitivity. Of course, if all were normal, and he wasn't walking on eggshells, he would have, perhaps not tormented the Vulcan about his relationship with Christine Chapel, but at least left him with a few barbed comments every now and then.

******

They were naked again, tucked together again into the snug width of Spock's bed in his quarters, he quietly comfortable in the warmth compared to the chill of the ship, she with the cosy sensation of lying very near to a blazing fire. The warmth was spreading not only from the temperature of the air in the room, but also from that unique warmth that radiated from every inch of the Vulcan's skin.

'So, Dr Helsand thought it was possible to help you,' she said tentatively.

Spock was lying motionless on his back, giving the appearance of being utterly relaxed, sightless eyes seeming to gaze at the red-draped ceiling above. There was a slight spicy scent of incense in the air, drifting from his meditation statue. The heat, the barbaric weapons on his wall backed by yards of red fabric, the exotic ornaments and furniture, all gave an atmosphere of alien passion that seemed so divorced from the cool, sleek, logical face that Spock presented to the world outside his cabin.

Spock stirred slowly, turning his head towards Christine so that she could feel the hot moisture of his breath on her face.

'It might be possible, yes,' he said. He seemed curiously reluctant to speak about the consultation, beyond the few bare facts that he had given her on meeting her in his cabin.

'Spock, you seem – ' She hesitated, then decided just to share her opinions without worrying about how it might offend him. 'You seem – frightened, or – '

Spock moved suddenly, turning onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow. The blanket fell from his torso, revealing the dark curls of hair on his chest almost down to his navel. She closed her eyes briefly. It was still so hard, in these early stages of their relationship, to catch these glimpses of him without becoming impossibly aroused. There was something intoxicating about the very _*darkness_* of him – his ebony hair, the brown depths of his irises, long black eyelashes framing those eyes, the black down that sat like a haze over the muscles of his chest and arms and legs.

'I am not frightened,' he said eventually – but his tone sounded a little _*too_* certain.

'Then – talk to me,' she said, reaching out to stroke her fingers across the firmness of his chest. 'You are – troubled. You can't deny that.'

Spock closed his eyes briefly, letting himself feel the delicate spider trails of her fingertips through his chest hair. If only he were human, and could silence everything by resorting to impulsive, careless intercourse.

'That's not really how humans work,' Christine said softly, and he realised with a slight jolt of shock that he must have projected that thought through the link they shared. 'We don't really drown all our sorrows in sex, you know.'

'If you could sense that thought, then surely you can understand what troubles me, without resorting to discussion,' Spock said rather blackly, in the full knowledge that that particular thought had passed to her because it so deeply *_involved* _her.

Christine raised an eyebrow, then took up the challenge that he had not really meant her to take seriously, touching her hand to his face, and opening her mind. She saw him, lying in an alien hospital, trapped in his white bed by his utter ignorance of his surroundings. She saw him being told by an anonymous voice that the operation had been unsuccessful, or that it was impossible even to try it. And then – finding himself elsewhere, in an unspecified, unfamiliar place, the hands of strangers touching him, patronising figures trying to teach him to cook, to clean, to walk through a city he had never seen with a cane that tap, tap, tapped at every step. People he didn't know touching him, always _*touching_* him, because he was blind, and they didn't realise how their touch bothered him, letting their emotions and pity seep into his mind. Arguing with a minor, faceless Starfleet official about his ability to return to his position on the _Enterprise_. The incapability to simply take a shuttle and return by himself. Sitting a room in a home of which he had no visual image, a stark place furnished around the needs of blindness, travelling out daily over the one route he was confident of, to his work teaching at the academy, or data sorting, or –

The images began to come so thick and fast that she lost the ability to process them, and she let her hand slip to the mattress, refocusing her eyes on his face. Spock's own eyes were closed now, his face strained with the emotion that he was fighting to control.

'That's not the way it will happen,' she promised him in a low voice. 'Worst case scenario, and you don't come back to the ship – you've forgotten to put _*me_* in that little house, and you've forgotten that you have skills and abilities far beyond teaching or data sorting. And you know that if you're cleared to work on an active starship – and there _*are_* some blind people working on active starships – then there are plenty of positions you could take here. There're always people wanting to be transferred, or waiting for promotion, and so few qualified people to take their spots. But you know that every important officer on this ship – the captain, Leonard, Mr Scott, just for starters – are behind you staying on in your current position. Leonard says the captain's always being harried by the upper echelons to play it safer – to stop having the captain and the first officer of the ship going together on dangerous away missions. You're a commander, a delegator – it's not like you're one of the security grunts who scout out situations and shoot at people.'

Spock opened his eyes, suddenly amused by her revelation of the opinion she held of the security officers on the ship.

'Oh, come on,' she said at the expression on his face. 'I spend half my duty time patching up ensigns who've raised their phaser to a Klingon before discovering their intentions, or taken on a creature with three rows of serrated teeth in a fist fight.'

'You become voluble when you have a point to make, don't you, Christine?' Spock asked, with a tone of subtle humour.

She took in a deep breath, almost ready to make a tart retort. Then she said pointedly, 'Well, you seem a little less – preoccupied.'

Spock nodded, turning onto his back and then sitting up in the bed, running his hands over the tactile patterns of the blanket. 'Perhaps what presents itself to me as logic at the moment, is too far influenced by pessimism. You have helped me to rationalise the probabilities I am facing. There is a degree of probability that my sight will be fully restored by Dr Helsand.'

Christine was silent, and Spock became aware that now his own disquiet had been alleviated, there was a heavy cloud of apprehension from the woman beside him. He relaxed his mental barriers again, but all he could sense was a vague but all consuming sense of dread that had come over her, mixed with a deep, terrible guilt.

'Christine?' he asked after a moment of waiting for her to speak. The guilt she felt was so deep that it blurred his sense of her thoughts, and he could not imagine what it was that had suddenly made her feel that way.

The silence stretched out again – but eventually she spoke.

'Would you even be here now, with me, if you hadn't been blinded?' she asked uncertainly.

He was lightened by a sudden understanding. The very _*humanness_* of the humans around him sometimes took him by surprise. It was quite logical for her to be worried that him regaining his sight would alter a relationship that had begun during those first, helpless days of his blindness. There was no need for such guilt.

'I feel just terrible, even thinking like that – ' she began.

He reached out to stroke her cheek with a feather-light touch. Her face felt much longer – much more like the face of a Vulcan woman – than it had seemed by sight. Perhaps her hairstyle had altered his perception of her looks. It was yet another reminder of the vast difference between the world of sight and the world of touch.

'No, I imagine I would not be here like this,' he said honestly. 'But that does not mean that I'm only here because the association is useful to me. If I had not been blinded we would not have shared those moments that enabled me to lower my barriers and accept and return your feelings.'

'But what about when you get your sight back?' she asked, the guilt making her voice small and hesitant.

Spock raised an eyebrow, a part of him buoyed by her automatic assumption that he *_would*_ regain his sight.

'Christine, I cannot make cast iron promises about the future,' he said. 'We live in an uncertain world – we both know that. Two weeks ago I did not dream that I would be living without sight. There was an even greater chance that I would not have survived the parasite's infection. Death is a day by day risk of my job.'

'Yes, I know,' she said in a haunted tone, and Spock was reminded of all the times she had tended to him in sickbay, sometimes uncertain as to whether he was going to live or die. He had never quite appreciated how difficult that must be for her.

'But if I regain my sight, I do not intend to simply forget that this ever happened,' he continued. 'My every intention would be to continue as we have been doing.'

She turned to him, laying a hand on his chest. 'Really?' she asked, in a voice now threaded with hope and happiness.

'I would not lie to you. Is there logic in repeating a statement that you obviously heard perfectly?' Spock asked, raising an eyebrow. 'Christine, I would never intend to hurt you, in any way,' he said firmly. 'I am a Vulcan. I do not make fickle associations. I do not expose deep, private emotions to people whom I intend to discard at a moment's notice. I do not share my mind and my body for a casual fling.'

She did not reply, but this time the only emotions suffusing her mind were happiness and contentment. She moved closer, wrapping her arm about his torso and resting her head on his chest, letting the warmth that pulsed there creep into her own skin.

'Perhaps it is time now for impulsive, careless intercourse,' he suggested, touching his lips to her hair. 'Such spontaneous acts do help to cement relationships, do they not?'


	13. Chapter 13

13.

Deneva revolved serenely on the viewscreen, an orb of blue and green against the black emptiness of space. The satellites were gone now, all hauled back into the cavernous shuttle bay by tractor beam, dismantled back to their composite pieces and awaiting recycling into the next necessary object. Stars pricked through that darkness about the planet, but against the brilliant light of the Denevan sun they seemed unreachable beacons, made insignificant by their very distance.

The serene planet held its own deceptions. There was no hint from this altitude that chaos and pain had ruled there for over eight months. There was no way of seeing the thousands of fresh grave cuts from space, or the broken windows and wrenched doors, or the piles on every corner where the remains of the creatures had been swept by those strong enough and motivated enough to hold a broom. The only sign from up here of the trouble was at night, when those familiar with the view of Deneva from space saw fewer lights twinkling in the cities and on the highways than they were used to. That was all.

The most pertinent of those small, invisible signs to Jim was the emptiness of the home of Sam and Aurelan Kirk, where every garment, every ornament and picture, even every piece of moveable furniture, had been carefully packed up by the most trusted of the ship's security team, sealed into boxes and beamed directly into one of the cargo bays. They would travel with Peter Kirk to Earth, where he would stay at first with his grandmother, and then with one of his elder brothers, and everything in those boxes would be subjected to the weary, heart-aching process of being sifted for meaning and worth. Perhaps half of it would end up in the recycling vaults, but at least Pete and his brothers would have the chance to choose which tattered scrap of fabric or creased childhood book held meaning, and which was just, after all, garbage.

Kirk sat in the command chair, his mind revolving over the fate of the things in those boxes. If only he could take a month – a week even – away from the ship, he could kneel with Sam's children, sifting through their contents. But there was really no need for him to be there at the sorting. Spock would tell him that it was illogical to place sentimental importance on inanimate objects. Spock, with his Vulcan weapons on his walls, and the Vulcan blanket from home folded over the end of his bed, and his red drapes to recreate the blazing warmth of the Vulcan sky. If Spock was allowed to crave these physical pieces of home, surely he was? Sam had always been the hoarder. Jim had spent a lifetime of moving about, leaving things behind, never accumulating too many possessions. Sam had moved to Deneva, and settled there. Did he still have those old toy cars they had played with as children, that Sam had always been jealously possessive of despite being old enough to know better? Did he have the birthday cards and little homemade presents that Jim had made for his worshipped elder brother? Did he –

Kirk realised that he was staring at the screen and not really seeing it. There were times and places for his grief to surface, and this was not one of them. He recalled himself to the bridge around him, and looked sideways, realising that Scotty was standing only a few feet away, watching him with an expression of mute understanding. As he saw Kirk looking at him, he moved a little closer, and Kirk stood up, sensing his desire to speak without being overheard.

'What is it, Scotty?' he asked, trying vainly to bluff his way through the fact he had been caught very close to breaking down on the bridge.

'Just a word, sir,' Scott said very quietly. 'If young Peter needs any distraction on the journey back – if you need a wee minute to yourself – I'd be happy to take him and show him about the engine room, explain the warp nacelles – that kind of thing.'

Kirk smiled. It wasn't quite in Scott to invite his captain back to his cabin for a drink and a chat. There was always an old-fashioned barrier of rank between them – perhaps a residue of his British heritage. But he was reaching out in the best way he could in offering to take the pressure for a few hours of caring for a bereaved and confused child who would never see his home again.

'Thanks, Scotty,' he said appreciatively. 'That would be a help – a very great help.'

With little Pete on the one hand and Spock on the other, both so different, and yet both so desperately in need of company and reassurance, he was beginning to despair of how to split his time. Spock, at least, had Christine Chapel to turn to – but, dammit, he _*wanted_* to spend time with his friend. He _*wanted_* to be there for him. Pete, though, had no one. He had absolutely no one, and … much as he loved him and cared for him, Jim did not want to spend every off duty hour with a child, especially not one so inextricably connected to the one person he so regretted not spending enough time with before it was too late.

Just that morning Kirk had found himself captivated, staring at the boy, trying to see glimpses of Sam in him. He could see Aurelan there well enough, in the tint of the hair and the shape of his lips and his rounded cheeks. But Sam… Was it so much harder to see Sam in him because that was what he wanted so desperately to see? Was it fair to Pete to bewilder him by standing there transfixed, searching for traces of his brother in a child's face? It was all just genetics anyway – just cells told to cluster in a certain way. Sam was gone, and no matter how many features or mannerisms Pete may have in common with him, that would not change the fact that he would never see his brother again.

'He might want to go to the Academy later on, sir,' Scott was saying. 'Looks like a bright lad.'

Kirk took in a deep breath, digesting that idea.

'I hope he decides not to,' he said finally, staring down at the braid on his own sleeves. Three golden stripes, binding him to his duty. He looked up into Scott's concerned face. 'If there was no other choice, Scotty, I would have had to give the order to destroy this planet,' he explained, nodding at that beautiful globe on the viewscreen. 'I – don't want him to ever have to make that choice.'

Scott nodded his head, understanding deep in his brown eyes. 'Yes, sir,' he said simply, then returned to the upper floor of the bridge to continue the checks for leaving orbit.

Kirk straightened his top, recalling himself to duty. Yeoman Zahra was standing patiently near his chair, datapadd in hand, awaiting his dictation. He could get this over with, get the ship out of orbit and on course for Earth, and then excuse himself, and sit down for a few quiet moments in his cabin.

'Yeoman, record this for Starfleet Command,' he began briskly.

'Ready, sir,' she said, turning her eyes to the padd.

'The alien creatures on Deneva have been destroyed,' he began, but he was cut off as Zahra exclaimed;

'Captain, look! Mr Spock!'

Kirk followed her outstretched finger, seeing Spock and McCoy coming through the doors of the turbolift. Spock had spent little time outside his cabin or sickbay in the last few weeks, and had not been seen on the bridge since the night that he had saved Elena Shumaker and her shipmates. He was standing a little apart from McCoy, cane in hand, very obviously managing without the doctor's guidance.

'Spock,' Kirk said warmly, turning away from the yeoman. The recording could wait. 'Come to say goodbye to Deneva?'

Spock raised an eyebrow. 'I see little need to give parting salutations to a planet,' he said. But all the same, he was there, offering no other excuse for his presence.

Kirk looked over his shoulder at the science station, where Chekov was sitting idly in his chair, gazing at the planet revolving on the viewscreen. There were no duties that needed performing there while leaving orbit. 'Chekov, would you?' he asked, nodding at the chair, then at Spock.

'Oh, of course, sir,' Chekov nodded, jumping up hastily and swinging the chair in Spock's direction. 'Would you like to sit, Mr Spock?'

Spock turned his head sharply towards the Russian, looking for a moment as if he was about to refuse. Then he nodded, and walked over to the chair, finding it with his cane and sitting down silently. The seat felt so familiar to him – but he was suddenly aware of the hopeless impossibility of using any of the equipment behind him without extensive adaptations.

'I presume we are still in orbit?' he asked very quietly of McCoy. The doctor had followed him across the bridge and was now standing by the science console. Spock could just visualise him, leaning casually against the console with no regard for the controls there, arms folded, watching the bridge proceedings with that vaguely suspicious expression he wore when confronted with any technology that was not connected with sickbay.

'Yeah – De Salle's just entering the course, I think,' McCoy murmured. 'Deneva's still up there on the screen. Looks like a clear day for most of the planet.'

Spock nodded, silently grateful for the doctor's attempt to fill in what he could not see. Clear day or not, he could not help but think that the inhabitants of Deneva would still have troubled minds, on their first day of managing without the assistance of the _Enterprise_. A dozen smaller ships were now in orbit, synchronised on the other side of the planet to stay clear of the great starship's departure route. The Federation had shipped in food, medical supplies, and hundreds of people to help. The government was reforming itself, stability was returning. But still, there was a certain reassurance brought by the presence of a ship of the line, visible in the night sky as the brightest star, protecting the vulnerable planet from whatever threats might come from space.

At the centre of the bridge, Kirk raised his voice. 'Ahead warp factor one, Mr Sulu.'

'Warp factor one, sir,' Sulu replied crisply, and simultaneously the ship gave a subtle shiver, and Spock felt that indefinable hum that meant that they had attained warp. The logical sequence of events was so familiar that it seemed to be burnt into his mind. Warp one to leave the solar system. Warp three for fifteen minutes to identify any problems that might cause danger at higher speeds. And then six, or perhaps even seven, in order to cover the distance between Deneva and Earth in the swiftest and safest way. In deference to Kirk's loss, Peter's need, and the _Enterprise_'s prolonged and harrowing stay at Deneva, they had been allowed to divert the ship there, and to stop there for three days, during which Sam and Aurelan Kirk's bodies would be laid to rest in Iowa, where Sam and Jim's mother still lived. And then… Officially the _Enterprise_'s schedule lay bare. All Jim was waiting for was the word from Dr McCoy, to say whether a trip to Rigel would be necessary or not. He and Spock had come to the bridge to tell him just that – but it could wait until the solar system was cleared, and the ship was established on its course.

'Jim's just finishing up the final report with Yeoman Zahra,' McCoy murmured again at his side.

'I'm sure he will let us know when he is free,' Spock said in a level voice.

They fell silent again. After a few moments curiosity made Spock turn around in his chair and lay his hands on the familiar controls of his science console. His memory was such that he could lay an image of what had always been there over the invisible console that he could only access in snatches under his fingers. His memory did not, of course, tell him which lights were on or off, what each instrument flashed onto its screen, what hid in the blue glow of his viewer.

He felt an earpiece under his hand, presumably laid down on the console by Chekov, and he picked it up and slipped it into his ear, hearing the familiar voices of his science team at their various stations about the ship. It seemed so long since he had sat in this chair…

A hand fell on the back of his chair, and Kirk said, 'Spock?' then asked softly, 'How does it feel? It's been a while.'

Spock pursed his lips, removing the earpiece and placing it back on the console.

'I am – uncertain,' he said honestly. He turned back towards the bridge, and got to his feet. 'Captain, Dr Helsand shared the results of his tests with the doctor and me this morning,' he continued in a low voice. 'He – believes that there is a chance of an operation being successful.'

Kirk's joy burst like sunshine around him. He had felt a similar reaction from Christine when he had told her the news earlier. In human minds there seemed to be no distance at all between _*there is a chance_* and Spock waking fully and perfectly sighted from a flawlessly executed operation.

'That's wonderful, Spock!' Jim said, patting a hand to his back. 'Listen, why don't you and Bones come down to the rec room, and we can make a proper celebration of it over lunch?'

Spock hesitated. After the prolonged series of tests Dr Helsand had needed him for, and preferring to spend his evenings in seclusion with Christine rather than out in public, he had stopped pushing himself to grow used to managing outside familiar areas. He had felt in limbo since Dr Helsand had held out the first spark of hope.

'Of course,' he said after a moment's pause, turning towards the turbolift. 'You're finished here, sir?'

'Nothing Scotty can't handle,' Kirk assured him, catching Scott's eye across the bridge. 'You have the chair, Mr Scott,' he said as they reached the lift, standing aside for Spock and McCoy to pass in front of him. 'Gentlemen?'

******

It wasn't until Kirk was in the turbolift that he fully registered that Spock's mood was far from joyous. He exchanged a glance with McCoy as they stood on either side of the Vulcan. Kirk had not expected smiles of happiness from his friend, but he had at least expected that sense of lightness that Spock always seemed to radiate when he was pleased. Instead, the Vulcan seemed unnaturally quiet and pensive as the lift descended through the levels of the ship, as if all of his concentration was turned in on one great problem that was churning in his mind. He had seemed that way ever since they had located Dr Helsand – but Kirk had expected the mood to lift once the ophthalmologist had pronounced the operation possible.

Spock slipped into the toilet on the way down to the rec room, and Kirk took the few minutes alone with McCoy in the corridor to question him about the Vulcan's worrying quietness.

'He just seems – withdrawn,' Kirk shrugged, glancing at the door into the washroom. 'More and more withdrawn every day. I don't know. You've spent more time with him recently than I have. Am I imagining things?'

'You're not imagining anything,' McCoy said seriously. 'He's scared to death, Jim. Spock's been like a lab rat for the past three weeks. Helsand's been running exhaustive tests on him because his tissue type is absolutely unique. The human factors bring in all sorts of variables that Helsand's never worked with. He can't be sure exactly how Spock will react to the drugs he'll need to help peel the eyelid tissue away, or how the _*tissue_* will react to them. And of course, he can't access the drugs until he gets to Rigel.'

'But he thinks it'll work?' Kirk asked anxiously.

'To a point,' McCoy nodded. 'Spock's been pushing Helsand on the figures all week. He hadn't even said whether he thinks it's worth an operation until now. This morning he finally gave out. Twenty-seven percent, Jim,' he said flatly. 'That's the best he could give him. And within that twenty-seven percent there's the chance of cataracts, or scarring, or only a partial removal of the eyelids.'

'He's scared of the operation failing,' Kirk murmured. 'He's scared of losing his last, best chance. I can't blame him, Bones.'

'No, neither can I,' McCoy nodded. 'I wish in some ways we could get it over with sooner rather than later. How long have we got to Earth, Jim?' he asked curiously.

'Eight days,' Kirk told him, glancing up as the washroom door opened and Spock came out, his head cocked sideways to hear precisely where his friends stood. The change of subject had been well timed. 'Deneva's a long way out, Bones.'

'Approximately seventeen hundred light years from Earth,' Spock supplied as he fell in between Kirk and McCoy. 'Shall we, gentlemen?'

He seemed to have shaken off some of his preoccupation while he was alone in the washroom. Perhaps he had brought some of those well-learnt disciplines to bear. Perhaps he even had used the toilet as an excuse to gain some time alone, to gather back control over his faltering emotions. Whatever it was, Kirk could only be glad of the change.

'And how long are we at Earth for?' McCoy asked, touching Spock's arm lightly to orient him as they began to walk.

'Three days,' Kirk said quickly, hoping to gloss over the subject of _*why_* they would be at Earth. He had no desire to talk about the double funeral. 'I was going to arrange shore leave for as many people as I can. They don't get the opportunity to see home that often…'

'And then – ' McCoy glanced at Spock, then continued, 'How long to Rigel?'

'Four days,' Kirk told him, noticing that Spock's face had taken on a certain blankness again. 'Maybe a little longer if Fleet require any stop-offs along the way.'

'Of course,' McCoy nodded, leaving the rest unspoken. Taking into account preparation time on Rigel, it would be perhaps three weeks before Spock's operation could take place – and that was only if they were allowed to go directly to Rigel.

*****

The first day docked at Earth had been a quiet one for Spock. Christine had been off ship visiting family, as had McCoy. Scott was taking the chance of having access to the space docks to attend to a myriad of tiny touch-ups and checks to the outside of the ship, so a large amount of the technicians and engineers who were not on shore leaving were crawling the hull like ants. Almost a third of the ship's complement had beamed down to take advantage of the rare chance to visit their various familiar places on Earth, so the corridors stood silent and empty. And Jim…

Jim had been off the ship almost all day, organising events, and spending time with his mother and Peter and his two older nephews. He came back from that first day sombre and exhausted, and Spock found very little to say to him, but he had determined to sit with him through the evening to give him the company that he judged him to need. Jim had, at least, seemed to take some comfort from his presence, and Spock had spent most of the evening playing chess, sipping at Saurian brandy, and resolutely avoiding speaking of what was to happen tomorrow. It wasn't until the following morning that Kirk finally brought the subject up. He came round to Spock's quarters while the Vulcan was still eating his breakfast, apologising for the intrusion, and then standing near Spock's desk seemingly unable to speak. There was something about the noise Kirk made when he moved that made Spock certain that he was not in uniform, which was unusual in itself.

'Captain,' Spock prompted him finally as he put his tray aside. 'Did you wish to ask me something?'

'Spock, I'd – ' Kirk hesitated. There was an unusual aura of awkwardness hanging over him. 'I wondered if you would – '

'I would be happy to stand with you at the funeral,' Spock said softly, guessing that this was what Jim was attempting to ask him.

'You're sure, Spock?' Jim asked him, surprise edging his voice. 'You'll be surrounded by emotional humans, and – '

'Jim, if you are content to bear with my current problems, I would be happy to stand with you at the funeral,' Spock repeated. 'It is this afternoon, is it not?'

'Yes, but I need to beam down this morning. I said I'd be there in about half an hour. There's a lot of organisation, and mom needs the support…'

'I have no prior arrangements,' Spock reassured him. 'Are you intending to wear dress uniform?'

'No, I think we're all going for black,' Kirk murmured. There was very little of the captain about him at this moment. He just seemed like an ordinary, tired, grieving human, and Spock reached out a hand to his arm in a brief touch of reassurance. The fabric of his sleeve was thick and less tightly woven than his uniform would be. Presumably Jim was already in his mourning clothes.

'Black,' he nodded. 'I have a black suit that should be suitable. If you could find it for me – ? It should be in the bottom drawer.'

'I'll have a look,' Kirk nodded, moving over to the chest of drawers.

'Will Dr McCoy be accompanying us?' Spock asked curiously.

'No,' Kirk said. Fabric rustled as he searched through the drawer, and then brought something out. 'He's got a full schedule, and he offered to – er – sort things out at this end. He'll be – '

'Of course,' Spock murmured, guessing that McCoy had volunteered to essentially perform the task of undertaker, preparing the bodies in the morgue for burial, arranging them in the coffins and having them beamed down at the correct time. He did not envy him his task. In that brief glimpse of Sam Kirk's face down on Deneva the most distressing thing had been how very like Jim he had looked.

'Here's the suit,' Kirk said quickly, patching over the awkward silence by pushing the clothes into Spock's hands. 'That's the jacket. Is that the one you meant?'

Spock ran his hands over the jacket, feeling the details of the collar and front fastenings. He was starting to notice a difference between the feel of the same type of cloth dyed with different colour dyes, as well as a subtle change in smell. It did not tell him *_what*_ colour the item was, but it did help to distinguish items that were the same. He could tell, at least, that the trousers that Kirk handed him were the correct ones to go with this jacket.

'I believe so, thank you,' he nodded. 'Shall I meet you in the transporter room in half an hour?'

Kirk hesitated, then said, 'If you don't mind, Spock, just come round to my room when you're ready. The sooner we get down there the better.'

******

Spock felt intensely useless as he sat on a chair in Jim's childhood home, listening to the oddly muted bustle around him. There were not many people here as yet – just Jim's mother, the boy Peter, and Peter's two elder brothers, who seemed to be tall, deep voiced young men in their late teens. He had been briefly introduced, but the two older boys in particular seemed to not know what to say to their uncle's Vulcan friend beyond effusions of gratitude for his part in Peter's successful treatment. Spock had found himself very quickly shown to a seat by Jim's mother, presumably in deference to his blindness, and he had stayed there while everyone else was assigned tasks about the house.

There was obviously a lot going on, but Spock heard very little speech from the people who kept coming in and out of the room. Jim and his nephews were helping Mrs Kirk prepare the house for the wake, clearing furniture away from the centre of the rooms, putting away vulnerable ornaments, and preparing food. Spock did not dare to move about in a place that he did not know, in which the layout was constantly changing, but finally, when he sensed Kirk re-entering the room, he got to his feet.

'Captain, there must be some task that I can perform,' he said in a low voice. 'Let me help.'

Kirk hesitated, then said in a tired voice, 'Come into the kitchen, Spock. Mom's bought about a metric tonne of biscuits that need putting out on plates.'

Spock nodded, reaching out to Kirk's arm to take guidance through the unfamiliar house. Jim had told him that the place was around three and a half centuries old, built of wood board, a large amount of which was still original. He could smell the wood everywhere, and hear it in the hollow noise that people's feet made on the floor. It was unusual to be in a place that did not have perfectly level floors and automatic sliding doors, with loose rugs and moveable furniture and ornaments, and he found navigating somewhat unnerving.

'Mom,' Jim said quietly as they entered a room that smelt of a medley of different foods. 'Spock offered to help with putting out some of the food. I thought the biscuits – '

'Yes, I guess having him put together ham sandwiches would be a faux-pas,' the woman murmured from the other side of the kitchen.

Spock allowed a hint of a smile to touch the corners of his mouth. Jim's mother was obviously tired, and distracted by grief – but she simultaneously reminded him of his own human mother, and of Jim, and he appreciated her ability to use humour even in this most unpleasant of situations. She had treated him with nothing but kindness and patience since he had stepped through the door, despite him being a stranger – and a stranger who could help very little. Jim's entire family seemed nothing but grateful to him for the bravery of testing the treatment that saved Peter Kirk's life, and no protestation of the simple logic of his actions could persuade them otherwise.

'Petey,' Mrs Kirk continued, and Spock realised that young Peter Kirk was in here helping too. 'Would you help Mr Spock put out the biscuits? You can read the packets for him.'

Spock stood at the counter arranging biscuits as Peter Kirk handed him the packets, gaining an odd degree of pleasure when Mrs Kirk praised him for the neatness of his arrangements. Could it be, he wondered, that he missed his own human mother? It had been too long since he had spoken to her. Perhaps, after he had been to Rigel, whatever the outcome, he would call her…

He gathered as he stood there listening to snatches of conversation that the gathering would be largely Jim's side of the family, although Aurelan Kirk evidently had a few family members on Earth who would be coming. Jim had perhaps been right to worry about the emotional human presence around him – even the air seemed to hold a feeling of muted, grey sadness, and every time Jim's mother touched his arm or Peter Kirk touched him while handing him something, he was assailed with waves of overwhelming grief.

'Spock, would you come with me for a moment?' Kirk asked finally, on one of his many trips into the kitchen.

Spock finished dropping the last few quartered tomatoes into a wooden bowl – he had progressed from putting out biscuits to preparing salad – and nodded, wiping his hands on a cloth and then turning to take Kirk's arm. He followed his captain across the room, and as Kirk opened a door the scent of sun-warmed grass hit him.

'Three steps down here,' Kirk murmured, as they stepped out of the door onto a wooden porch. Spock followed him carefully, and his feet touched hardened earth covered with a soft layer of grass. 'Spock, I'll be helping to carry Sam's coffin,' Kirk said as they moved a little way from the house. 'We'll be going in the car together, but would you go with mom into the church? She doesn't mind helping you.'

'Yes, of course,' Spock nodded quietly, but he was forced to ask, 'You said - _*the car_*?'

'Mom thought Sam would like traditional ground cars,' Kirk said quietly. 'He always liked antique motor transport. They'll be arriving in about ten minutes to take us. Pete's going with his brothers in one, and you, mom and I are going in the other.'

'I see,' Spock nodded. He wondered whether he would have been in the family car if it had not been for his inability to manage without help. Jim, perhaps, would have wanted him at his side anyway. 'I would volunteer to help with the carrying of the coffin, but in my current predicament – '

Kirk actually laughed at that – just a small, short laugh, but it at least seemed to relieve him momentarily from the overwhelming grief he seemed to be experiencing.

'I was not intending a joke,' Spock began, and Kirk put a hand on his arm.

'No, I know, Spock. I appreciate it – I really do. I would have liked to have you alongside me. I was just visualising – '

Spock nodded, imagining the macabre consequences of a stumble or slip while carrying a fully laden coffin. It was a mark of Kirk's profession that he could see humour in such a thing, even when the coffin would contain his own brother.

******

The funeral was worse than Spock had imagined it could be. The church was crowded with people, and he had ended up pressed against Kirk's side in the pew, with a female alongside him who spent most of the service weeping softly. Jim had cried too. Even though Kirk had stayed rigidly still beside him, he was certain of that fact. He could not say whether or not tears had slipped down his face, but he had been inundated with the dark, drenching emotion of grief from him and from everyone else around him. All he could to was to touch his hand to Kirk's arm to try to give him some reassurance of his support, and raise his mental shields to a level that almost prevented him from being aware of anything around him. He had only realised that the service was over when Jim left him again to help carry the coffins to their places of burial. He had taken Mrs Kirk's arm for guidance out into the graveyard, but found himself supporting her as much as she was guiding him. He had never before been surrounded by so much unrestrained human grief.

He arrived back at the family home resolving to never, ever attend a human funeral again – at least, not one that was populated by anyone other than controlled, disciplined Starfleet personnel. The mood seemed to lighten when everyone was back in the house, eating food, talking and reminiscing, but there was still a veil of emotion in the air that seemed to dull his senses and make him feel twice as blind.

He sat for a long time on a chair at the side of the room, alternately being ignored and being inundated with praise from strangers for helping to save Peter Kirk's life. Jim was constantly required to help his mother and to speak to various relatives and friends, and had very little time to spare for him. But eventually young Peter Kirk came up to him and said tentatively;

'Sir – Mr Spock?'

Spock turned his head, strangely relieved that it was someone familiar rather than another faceless relative. 'Yes, Peter?' he asked

'Uncle Jim asked me to come and get you, sir. He's out in the garden. He didn't want to come in, because Great Aunt Tilda keeps – '

'Thank you, Peter,' Spock nodded, getting to his feet. He stood for a moment, considering how to proceed with a guide so small, then asked, 'May I put my hand on your shoulder, Peter?'

'Sure,' the boy said, and Spock touched a hand to his slim shoulder, letting the boy guide him with an exaggerated degree of care out through the kitchen and down the wooden steps. Peter took him across an open grassy space, and then into the shade of a tree.

'Uncle Jim,' he called. His voice seemed very small in the open space.

'Oh, Spock,' Kirk said in a distracted tone. 'Thanks, Petey.'

Peter smiled in reply, and Kirk caught himself again searching for Sam in that face, and failing.

The moment faded away as Spock let go of the boy's shoulder, and Peter turned and ran back to the house.

'I'm sorry I put you through all of this today, Spock,' Kirk murmured after a moment of silence. 'I shouldn't have – '

Spock turned to his captain, suddenly remembering just what, and who, he had been there for. All the grief to which he had been subjected dwindled into insignificance against the thought that he had made it just a little bit easier for his friend.

'Jim,' he said softly, reaching out for his arm. 'I came here of my own accord. I was glad to be here for you.'

'It helped,' Kirk said quietly. 'Do you mind taking a walk, Spock?' he asked after a moment. 'I don't feel like standing still.'

'Of course,' Spock nodded. It had been his first time off the ship since the disastrous expedition to Deneva, and it was refreshing to spend time outside in the warmth of the sun and the soft breeze, especially after the claustrophobic grieving masses in the house.

They stepped onto what felt like a dirt track, and Spock found his attention largely taken up by concentrating on the inconsistencies in the ground. Gradually, however, he grew more used to the rough surface, and began to take in the noises of birds calling and flying, and the dry rustling that Kirk told him was the wind through nearly ripe wheat.

After a while of walking, as they topped a small rise in the ground, Kirk gave an oddly harsh laugh, and Spock turned to him, one eyebrow raised in a question.

'This is the best view of the whole place, Spock,' he said in a faintly bitter voice. 'I was just thinking how this is the first time you've been to my home – and you can't see it. I'm sorry, Spock. I wish you could.'

'My situation cannot be altered,' Spock said flatly. 'Regret is largely pointless.'

Kirk regarded him for a moment. 'Spock, you know that's not true,' he said, the bitterness fading from his tone. 'You know that this operation is going to work, don't you?'

Spock closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. 'Optimism cannot grant me better odds.'

'Neither can pessimism,' Kirk reminded him. 'I know you, Spock. You're terrified that you're going to wake up from this operation just as blind as you are now. You're terrified that you're going to lose everything you know. But constantly telling yourself that the operation won't work isn't going to help. At this rate you're going to convince yourself that it's not even worth having the surgery.'

'Captain – ' Spock began, turning to him.

'You can tell me about logic and discipline until you're green in the face, Spock – but don't tell me I'm wrong,' Kirk said firmly.

Spock pressed his lips together. Then he said, 'Captain, is it possible that you are pursuing this subject in order to avoid the one subject you wish to avoid? That houseful of people behind us, and the reason that they are there?'

'All right, you caught me,' Kirk said roughly. 'No, I don't want to stand there and talk to fifty distant relatives and friends about how my brother died. I don't want to see my mother sobbing, looking ten years older than she should, or my nephews wandering about not knowing where to turn because suddenly they're orphans.'

'That does not change the concrete facts,' Spock said flatly.

'Spock, if you're telling me I should face up to my problems instead of running away from them, perhaps you should clean your own house first,' Kirk said sharply. 'Or do you want me to go back there now and be the starship captain, the hero, the life and soul of the party?' he asked recklessly, stepping away from Spock's hand. 'Do you want me to leave you here to work out your problems while I go face up to mine?'

Spock seemed to freeze as Kirk walked away from him, his face losing all expression. It was very rare that Jim truly lost his temper, and Spock could not be certain that in his anger he would not leave him here.

'Jim,' he said in a deadly serious tone. 'It is unlike you to be cruel. I need your help to return to the house.'

There was a long pause, during which Spock heard Jim's footsteps slow to a stop, and then his feet scraped in the gravel as he turned.

'Spock, you underestimate yourself,' he said finally. 'You've gotten into that habit recently. You're quite capable of following this track back to the house.'

There was silence again. The wind rustled the nearly-ripe wheat. Every now and then Spock caught the sound of a door closing far away, or the hum of an air-car. Above that, focussing his hearing more than anything else, he could hear Kirk's breathing, sharp and fast, but gradually calming. Finally Jim moved closer, and Spock could sense that the flame-like surge of anger had subsided.

'I'm not firing on all cylinders, Spock,' Jim said in a tone of apology. 'This – really has _*not_* been the best day for me. It's – hard – being here, where we grew up. Sam and I used to play here. Sam set up that rope swing on that tree, right here,' he said, presumably indicating something that Spock could not see. 'We used to swing out and land in the wheat – oh, about this time of year, when it was full-grown and golden. Drove dad mad…'

There was another long silence, then Kirk said, 'I can't believe it, Spock. I carried his body today, felt the weight of it. I watched his coffin drop down into the earth, and I still can't believe it. Sam, gone, just like that. He had so much time left in his life…'

Spock was silent for a time. Then he said carefully, 'I am not human, Jim. I don't know how to offer platitudes on the death of a loved one. But – I _*do_* understand.'

Kirk looked up at him, feeling his understanding as much as hearing it in his words. Spock had told him that when they had first found Sam's body, and he had dismissed his sympathy, so caught up in his shock that he could not bear to let another person's compassion touch him, lest it make Sam's death real.

'I know, Spock,' he nodded. 'I know.'

'Captain, I have been considering my options regarding this operation,' Spock said, sensing that it was time to turn the subject away from death. 'It would be a far more efficient use of Starfleet funds for Dr Helsand and me to find passage on a ship that is already destined for Rigel than to divert the entire Enterprise to that destination.'

Kirk regarded him, with a sudden, deeper understanding of Spock's motivations over the past week. All of his brief, burning anger had gone now, taking the sharper edges of his grief with it, and it had left him with a clearer view of his friend's distress.

'You *_really_* are scared that this operation won't work, aren't you, Spock?' he asked. 'And you're convinced you won't be able to stay on the ship. So you're withdrawing yourself bit by bit from everything you care about. You've been staying away from your friends and colleagues, from the rest of the ship – and now you want to leave the ship entirely, have no one you care about with you on Rigel – so no one will be able to see you when you're told the operation didn't work.'

'What will there be left for me on the ship, if the operation does not work?' Spock asked quietly. 'Do you truly believe that Command will let me stay, blind as I am?'

Kirk looked at him again, seeing the despondency in Spock's bearing beyond the emotionless mask of his face. In his black suit, with the black cane in his hand and his dark, sightless eyes, he presented an impossibly grave picture.

'I'll do you a deal, Spock,' he said with a smile. 'Just leave off making any plans until _*after_* the operation. Give me and McCoy the privilege of being your friends, and being there for you.'

'And your part of the deal?' Spock asked curiously.

Kirk hesitated, as if trying to think of something to say. 'I'll face up to my responsibilities, and brave the friends and relations. We can go in and get something to eat. I'm starving.'


	14. Chapter 14

14.

It was evening, and the summer heat was evaporating up from the grass now instead of pulsing down from the sky. Spock, seated on an aged wooden bench in the farm's large garden, could feel the damp warmth rising to his palms as he held his hands out before him. The noise of wind in the wheat had died down, and what light filtered into his eyes was tinted with the rich flame of sunset.

'I always liked this time,' Kirk murmured beside him. 'It looks like the sun's setting fire to the wheatfields. I don't think about it on board ship, but when I'm here, I realise how much I miss it.'

'I have never before been to Earth and been denied the sight of its sun,' Spock said, startling Kirk with the overtones of emotion in his statement.

'Can you see anything right now?' Kirk asked curiously, turning to look at the Vulcan.

Spock turned his head towards the setting sun. His gaze did not falter as it passed over the dazzlingly bright orb.

'A certain redness, redolent of Vulcan skies. Nothing more specific.'

The house behind them was almost silent now. The guests had returned home hours ago, leaving a degree of chaos in the farmhouse. Spock had stood at the sink meticulously washing all that would not fit in the dishwasher, while Jim and his family roamed the empty rooms, gathering crockery, tipping leftovers into the composter, and cleaning up spills and crumbs from the carpet. Apart from the total lack of decoration in the house, they could almost have been clearing up after a party.

Peter had long since gone to bed, exhausted emotionally and physically by the long day just gone, and Mrs Kirk had followed him soon after, but the two elder sons of Sam and Aurelan Kirk were still sitting inside, and Spock and Kirk had thought it prudent to leave them to their grief. This was why they were now sitting on a bench in the growing chill, while the sun slipped below the horizon.

'It must be getting cold for you out here,' Kirk said finally, glancing at Spock. The Vulcan was dressed for a warm summer day, not a cool, clear evening.

'It is tolerable,' Spock said quietly.

Neither of them had spoken about either Spock's operation or the sharpness of Kirk's loss since they had argued on the dirt track, and both were content to leave it so. A quiet sense of acceptance seemed to have fallen over both of them, and neither wanted to disturb it. There was something strangely therapeutic about just sitting here surrounded by nature, after the sterility of the ship. Kirk was sleeping here tonight, and so had nowhere to go, and Spock – was waiting.

Finally Spock heard a low hum, and Kirk saw a gold sparkle coalesce before them, gradually solidifying into a tall, copper-haired female figure, clad in an ankle length dress of translucent blue swirls, shimmering over a more solid, but astonishingly sparse, blue minidress beneath. Rings sparkled on more than one of her fingers. Kirk drew breath at the sight. He passed her almost every day in the corridors, but he had not realised that his ship's head nurse cut such a striking figure when she was out of uniform, with her hair styled high on her head to increase her already ample height.

'Captain,' she nodded as the beam released her. 'Spock.'

Spock got to his feet instantly, moving toward her voice.

'I'll see you tomorrow, Spock,' Kirk called, and he half turned around to his captain.

'Good night, Jim,' he nodded.

He suspected that Kirk knew more about his plans for the evening than he himself did, since Christine had presumably cleared the leave with him. At this point all he knew was that Christine had called down to say that she would meet him at the house. Jim's mother had taken the call, and Spock had had no opportunity to question the nurse about her unexpected beam down.

'Night, Spock,' Jim replied. 'Miss Chapel, the skimmer should be at the end of the drive in about two minutes.'

'The skimmer?' Spock asked quietly as he reached Christine. The familiar scent of her perfume, and the softer scents of her human body, drifted around him as he touched her loose, silken sleeve.

'Well, air-taxi,' she amended, letting him take her arm. 'A skimmer wouldn't cover the distance required in the time we've got, but an air-taxi's far more discreet than beaming up to the ship and down again together.'

'I see. Perhaps you would confide your plans to me?' he asked as they walked away from the house. The path they took was the same he had walked with Kirk to the funeral cars earlier – a firm, stone-laid surface that was far easier to navigate than the dirt track out to the fields.

'My plans?' she asked lightly. It was obvious that she was smiling. 'A hotel, dinner, a bedroom with a spa bath and a emperor size bed – and no interruptions, no red alerts, and no ship concerns for either of us.'

'A – hotel?' Spock asked slowly. As pleasant as her surprise sounded, he did not want to have to learn a whole new set of surroundings just for one night.

She put her hand over his, registering the uncertainty in his voice. 'Don't worry – you won't be lost. Dr McCoy told me a little anecdote a few weeks back,' she said.

'Did he?' Spock asked, a certain amount of suspicious curiosity in his tone. 'I do not see the relevance – '

'He said how last year both you and he were called on last minute to present lectures in the Serving Officers week at Starfleet Academy.'

'We were,' Spock said, his voice growing ever more suspicious. 'The ship made an unexpected trip to Earth. We were able to attend when previously we had thought it impossible.'

'He said it was at the height of the vacation season in San Francisco, and there was very little accommodation left. He said the only room that turned up for both of you was a luxury suite in Le Salon Bleu. Apparently you refused to sleep for six nights – but you did use the room.'

'That is true,' Spock nodded. 'Although I did take the opportunity to sleep once, when McCoy was lecturing. It is – almost impossible to sleep in a room where the good doctor is turning and muttering and snoring in his bed.'

Christine laughed at the image of McCoy acting precisely as so many humans did in their sleep, and Spock sitting at the side of the room, disapproving, and despairing of getting any rest.

'Well, I did a little checking,' she told him. 'Room 325, ocean view, spa bath?'

'Yes, I believe so,' Spock nodded.

'Well, luckily, it's not the height of the season now, and the room is free. I booked us in for tonight,' she told him. 'I figured that if you'd stayed there for a week last year you'd be familiar enough with the layout. I called them up, and they haven't changed the room since.' She saw the slightly confused look on the Vulcan's face, and smiled. 'Spock, over the last month or so you've been subjected to immeasurable pain and exhaustion, blindness, and a hostage situation. This is what we humans like to call *_a break_*. Since the Captain's going to try to get to Rigel as quickly as possible, I thought we should take the opportunity for this – moment of sanity – before the medical procedures begin. I know it's only one night, but – '

Spock turned to her, a smile touching the edges of his lips. 'A lot can be achieved in one night,' he told her. 'Can I hear the air-taxi?' he asked, turning his ear towards the soft sound of an engine.

'You can,' she nodded. 'It's just set down. They promised no longer than half an hour to make San Francisco, once we've lifted off.'

******

Spock stood with his hands on the balcony rail, aware of the varied sounds of the city at his back, and of the gentle, pulsing, swooshing noise of the ocean before him, crashing its waves onto the yielding sand. He could smell the salt water in the air, but that scent was faint against all the mingling odours from closer by – the scent of vegetation, and of dampness on tarmac, layered over with many varied scents of foods and alcohol from nearby restaurants, and the occasional tang of sweat or drift of perfume from passers-by.

He found it curious that the last time he had been in this room it had been with McCoy, and that he had been able to stand on the balcony and see the water undulating to the horizon. Of course, it must be approaching darkness over the ocean now, despite the extra daylight they had gained by their swift flight west. He could imagine the many lights in the street below, glittering from the buildings to the left and right, and pin-pricking the ocean where boats moved on the water. Logical or not, he found it immensely reassuring to be able to visualise the room behind him and the scene before him, and he was grateful to Christine for the lengths she had gone to to secure that for him.

He turned back into the room, hearing Christine shutting the door as she came out of the bathroom.

'I thought we could take dinner in our room, if you wanted,' she said as she came to him, the scent of soap and fresh cosmetics hanging around her.

Spock paused, then said decisively, 'No. I am quite content to eat in a restaurant of your choice. I think I am capable now of a passable standard of neatness, and I – would be honoured to be seen with you.' He touched her arm, toying with the sheer fabric of her over-dress. 'I imagine you must look – quite stunning tonight, Christine.'

'Well, I don't know about that,' she demurred.

'The fabric of this garment feels quite expensive,' he pointed out. 'I don't imagine you would waste money on such a garment if it did not look well on you. It is a dress, is it not?'

'This is an ankle-length sheer over-dress,' she told him, lifting the flimsy fabric so that it rustled through her hands.

'It is transparent?' Spock asked, raising an eyebrow in intrigue. He let his fingers slip over the thin, silky material, trying to imagine how it must look.

'Pretty much. It's a loose feather pattern in varying shades of blue – a little gold and green thrown in too – but it's see-through.'

'And beneath?' Spock asked curiously.

'A deep blue minidress, scoop-backed, no sleeves. I know you can't see it, but I still wanted to look nice for you.'

'I appreciate it,' Spock nodded, letting his fingers run across the surface of the dress, feeling the shoulder-straps of the minidress underneath it. 'I'm sure it will prove interesting to investigate the layers – later. For now, where do you wish to dine?'

'If you don't mind, I know a nice place about ten minutes walk from here. They do the best seafood, and some lovely vegetarian selections too.'

'That sounds fine,' Spock nodded. 'Are you ready now?'

'Just let me pick up my wrap,' she said, turning to pick up a dark blue shawl and draping it about her shoulders. 'Oh, and I picked up this coat from your quarters,' she said, putting a charcoal grey coat into his hands. 'I thought you might need it once night fell.'

'This is the dark grey wool mix?' Spock asked, running his hands over it. He carefully oriented the coat and put it on. 'There. I am ready. Shall we?'

******

Spock was grateful that it was night-time and the street was quiet as they walked together along the sidewalk after their meal. Although he had kept his cane collapsed and in his pocket, he imagined that it still must be very obvious that he was blind, as he walked holding on to Christine's arm. There had been enough subtle reaction to it in the restaurant, and he did not want to parry any more curious questions. He knew from experience that his was a very recognisable face in this Starfleet-centred city, and while the news of his blindness had, so far, been confined more or less to the ship, it would not be long before whispers of it were travelling around Headquarters, and the Academy campus. He didn't look forward to the idea of his parents being told of it through careless gossip.

'You seem preoccupied,' Christine murmured as they walked.

'Strange places take far more concentration than familiar ones,' he reassured her. 'That is all.'

'I'm sorry about all that in the restaurant,' she said quietly. 'I – didn't quite expect you to be recognised by so many people.'

'We spend so much time in deep space,' Spock shrugged. 'It's rare that we come to Earth, and we forget just how well-known the _Enterprise _and its personnel are here.'

'How well known you and the captain are, anyway,' she corrected him. 'I don't think they would have been able to tell me from Adam – or from Eve, at least,' she laughed.

'I imagine the local gossips would have been fascinated to see me both without sight, and dining with a beautiful woman,' Spock said with a hint of mischief in his tone.

'Then you really don't mind?' she pressed, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice.

'No, I really do not mind,' he said, shaking his head.

He stopped on the sidewalk, turning her to him and taking her arms in his hands.

'You may, Christine, be forced at some point to accept that I am content with this relationship,' he said softly. 'I do not want to hide in corners. I am not ashamed.'

He touched a finger to the underside of her chin, tilting her face upwards. He stroked the fingertips of his other hand lightly over her face, touching her lips, before moving forward to touch his own lips to hers. That most illogical sensation descended again – the feeling that he was falling into a realm where sight and sound had no place, and all that mattered was the soft sensation of her lips against his, and the taste of her mouth and the air that she breathed. He was becoming accustomed to that feeling, and each time it came about him it became easier to dismiss his automatic objections to the irrationality of it.

'I would rather we were in our room now, than out on the street,' he said huskily as they broke apart.

'That can be arranged,' she smiled, letting him take her arm again. 'It's only a block away – and I think that spa bath's waiting...'

******

Christine had been right. Some kind of wonderful, illogical transformation had taken place in Spock's mind for that one night of careless luxury in a San Francisco hotel. He could not quite see why eighteen hours or so away from the ship and from any of the troubles attached to the ship could effect more of a change in his mind than a period of focussed meditation. Despite that, he beamed up with a sense of lightness in his being that pushed the dark discontent toward the edges of his mind. He could not say that the constant blurred darkness no longer bothered him, but he could, at least, look on the future with a greater degree of optimism than before. There was, after all, a chance that Helsand's operation would work for him – and if it did not, he was continuing to learn and adapt every day, perhaps well enough that Starfleet would allow him a continued role on the _Enterprise_.

By the time they beamed back aboard, the last of the handful of refugees from Deneva had left the ship, Peter Kirk was with his family on Earth, and everything – or almost everything – was back to normal. Spock was relieved that Jim seemed to be coming to terms with his brother's death. The short time on Earth seemed to have done wonders for him, too, as if the funeral had somehow managed to seal off the immediacy of his grief.

'I have been off duty too long,' Spock confided to Kirk over a glass of Saurian brandy. It was evening on the ship, and Kirk had been talking through the long shift on the bridge he had just finished, trying to keep Spock up to speed on ship business. 'I am fast running out of ways to occupy myself on the lower decks.'

'Sentimentality, Spock?' Kirk asked with a smile. 'You miss the bridge – that's what you're saying.'

'Not sentimentality,' Spock corrected him gravely. 'Perhaps – concern for how long I have been away from my post.'

Jim took a sip from his glass, letting his gaze settle on the Vulcan's blank eyes. He was getting too used to seeing Spock sightless. Everyone was getting too used to it. He had got to the point now where he would turn to the science station expecting to see Chekov in his gold shirt, not Spock in blue. Even though Spock was sitting in on briefings and consulting with those in his department, it could not compare with the reassurance of his presence on the bridge.

'We were – what – a month at Deneva, after we killed the parasites?' Kirk asked, putting his glass down on the desk beside him.

'Twenty-seven days, to be precise,' Spock nodded.

'And just over a week to Earth, three days in dock, two days so far to Rigel. Spock, you've been blind for – almost a month and a half,' he said in astonishment. 'I didn't realise how long it had been…'

'I imagine my blindness holds a higher priority in my own mind than in yours,' Spock said wryly. Each second that ticked away was another that he could add to the total in his head.

'Maybe it does. Do you have a schedule for the operation yet?' Kirk asked him.

'Assuming we arrive on time, without diversion, I will beam down with McCoy and Dr Helsand on the morning after our arrival, for the primary consultation. The doctors on Rigel will wish to carry out a series of tests to determine the best possible procedure for my type of injury. Those will be out-patient appointments, of course. When those tests have been completed, a date will be set for the operation itself – as soon as possible, I am told. There is a short recovery period, but there is a possibility that I could return to the _Enterprise_ for that, if we are pressed to move onto a new mission.'

'Well, we're cleared for two weeks,' Kirk told him. 'Rigel's got a first-class maintenance facility, so Scotty's got some essential maintenance scheduled on the warp drive. We'll be immobile during that work at any rate.'

'That is reassuring,' Spock nodded.

Kirk knew that was as close as Spock would get to admitting that he wanted his friends and his home close by when he underwent the operation. Although something seemed to have brightened in the Vulcan since the visit to Earth, it was obvious that the coming surgery filled him with trepidation.

'It'll be all right, you know, Spock,' he said softly, putting his glass down again so that he could touch the Vulcan's arm reassuringly. 'We'll be at Rigel before we know it – and then the operation, and then – '

'Perhaps, I will see,' Spock nodded.

'No perhaps about it,' Kirk said stoutly. 'I'm looking forward to having a game of chess that I don't have to describe move by move, Spock. You can't let me down.'

******

The ship arrived at Rigel precisely as scheduled. Somehow, it seemed that someone had caused all of Starfleet to hold its breath – at least as regarded the _Enterprise_'s mission status. It was almost unheard of for the ship to pass from one place to another without some small but vital errand being tagged onto its duties. Even during the transit from Deneva the ship had acted as a transport service, ferrying the few dozen people who could no longer stand to live there to their new homes. This time, Spock could only imagine that Kirk had managed to use his admirable skills at persuasion to clear absolutely *_everything_* from the ship's schedule. For that, he was grateful.

The first few meetings with the Rigelian doctors were unnerving, to say the least. Spock had McCoy at his side, and Helsand, but he found it quite discomforting to spend so much time in an alien hospital environment where he was forced to rely totally on others for guidance, and where absolutely no one had remembered faces that he could attach to the voices. Every person he met seemed fascinated by his mixed heritage and the structure of his eyes, to the point of forgetting that they were dealing with a person rather than a collection of biological oddities.

The extended interviews and examinations, the hours of leaning into optical scopes or lying on his back with Rigelian doctors bending over him, at least had the benefit of filling up his time. It felt as if very little time had passed between arriving at Rigel, and the date being confirmed for the operation. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would lie in that alien hospital, and be anaesthetised, and lie in oblivion on an operating table while Helsand and one of Rigel's most prominent ophthalmologists stood over him, doing all they could to remove the useless inner eyelids that were obscuring his vision.

He stood in front of his suitcase, considering what else to put in for his short stay. Ordinarily he might have included a book, but there seemed little point in doing so this time – even if the operation did work, he had been warned against straining his eyes in the early days. He was uncertain as to how many clothes to put in. Would he be bound to wear hospital garments, or, since he was not ill, be allowed to wear his own clothes? Would he be treated as if he was ill, despite the fact that only his eyes were malfunctioning? Hospitals often did so…

'Just put in enough for four or five days,' Christine said softly over his shoulder. 'It doesn't matter if you don't wear them – and I'll be there to help you pick them out if you need me to.'

Spock turned toward her, and nodded, allowing a small smile onto his face. 'It is really not necessary for you to take leave,' he said quietly, although he both knew that she would not agree with that statement, and he did not want her to agree with him.

'It is _*very_* necessary,' she said. 'Perhaps it's not necessary according to logic – but it is necessary according to me.'

'Yes, I know,' Spock nodded. While Kirk and McCoy would be visiting around their scheduled duties, Christine had been granted a week's vacation, and would be able to beam down and be at his side whenever hospital visiting hours allowed.

'You're nervous about the operation, aren't you?' she asked softly.

Spock paused in folding a pair of trousers, his hands betraying him by gripping tensely at the dark fabric.

'There is little logic in feeling nervous about an operation that I _*must_* have.'

'That doesn't mean you don't feel nervous,' she pointed out.

Spock tilted his head in acknowledgement.

'However, it is imperative that I undergo the operation. It is imperative that it _*work_*.'

'The doctors' reports have been very favourable, haven't they?' she asked him, picking up the padd that held the data, and scanning her eyes over it. 'It says here, _*tissue type – receptive, reaction to drugs – positive_*.'

'Yes, that is true,' Spock nodded, beginning to fold the clothing again, and laying it very carefully on top of the other items in the suitcase.

The positive side of being forced to act the guinea pig again, and be subjected to dozens of tests again, was that the doctors on Rigel had managed to push the odds up above fifty percent. Finally there was a greater chance that he would wake up from the operation able to see, than that a doctor would be there to tell him he would never see again.

He shut the lid of the suitcase, and held out both hands to her. She took them, stroking her thumbs softly over the backs of his hands.

'I promise,' she said firmly. 'It _*will_* work.'

Spock shook his head. 'That is not a promise that you can make.'

'Maybe not,' she told him. 'But I know it's true, anyway. It's illogical, I know. It doesn't make sense. But I know it's true.'

'My entire way of life is dependent on this operation,' he said quietly. 'You know that there is a possibility that my eyes will only be further damaged by the procedure.'

'Yes, I know it's possible,' she said soberly. 'I know it is. Spock – ' She looked down at his case, and about the room. 'Spock, you're all sorted here. Will you come for a walk with me? There's somewhere I wanted to take you.'

'On the ship?' Spock asked curiously.

'On the ship. Come on. It won't do you any good sitting in your room going over and over something you can't control.'

'Logical,' Spock murmured.

Despite what he had said in San Francisco, he was not totally at ease with being seen about the ship with Christine, and being exposed to all of the gossip the relationship would kindle. But there was only one way to deal with his unease, and that was to push it away, and continue with Christine as if they were the only two people in the world whose opinions mattered.

He felt on his desk for his cane, and extended it to its full length, then turned to Christine.

'Where do you wish to take me?'

'Wait and see,' she smiled. 'It's a surprise.'

Spock deliberately tried not to keep track of where they were walking, in order to make Christine's surprise as effective as possible. He was not sure of the purpose of surprises, but he was willing to go along with it purely for the pleasure that it would bring the woman beside him.

When a door finally opened before them and they walked through he stood still for a moment, taking in the warm, humid atmosphere and the many scents of plants about him.

'We are in the ship's botany department,' he said. 'This is usually Mr Sulu's province.'

'We are,' she said in a satisfied voice. 'Mr Sulu has been working on something that I wanted to show you. I don't know if they'd have the same resonance for a Vulcan, but I love them.'

She touched his arm again, walking across the room with him to one of the inner chambers. As the door opened, Spock was surrounded by a dozen different but related scents, billowing around him like a blanket. The room was warmer than the one they had just left, and a gentle breeze touched his face and ruffled his hair. Presumably Sulu had altered the temperature and set up a fan to simulate natural growing conditions. For a moment the combination of warmth and scent and soft wind conspired to transport him to another place. Without sight, he could almost be standing in a garden.

'Roses,' he said in wonder. He took a step forward, reaching out a hand, although evidently he was not quite close enough to the flowers to touch them.

'I wasn't sure if you'd recognise them,' Christine said, happiness filling her voice as she took his arm and steered him closer to the raised beds. 'I think they're absolutely beautiful, but I didn't think Vulcan was quite the place… They're here, just in front of you.'

Spock reached forward, until his hands encountered a hard, thorn-studded stem and a mass of surprisingly cold, smooth leaves hooked with tiny claws up their spines. He moved his fingers upward, searching, until they touched the head of a rose blossom, packed tightly with masses of soft, scented petals. He bent forward, inhaling the scent and recognising it almost instantly.

'Your surprise is more resonant than you could have imagined. My mother has grown a rose garden at our home since the early days of her marriage,' Spock explained, feeling out for more blossoms. It was a little cooler than it had been in his mother's sheltered garden on Vulcan, but the scent and the breeze together brought a thousand memories into his mind. 'My father actually had soil and minerals and the young bushes transported from Earth. I used to spend hours sitting on the stone seat in the centre of that garden, practising at my meditation. This is a Princess Abigail, is it not?' he asked, drawing a flower to his nose. 'Deep pink, with streaks of red at the centre of the petals?'

'It's not labelled – but the colours are as you describe,' she said.

'It is a Princess Abigail,' Spock said with certainty, smelling the flower again. 'And this,' he said, moving sideways to touch his hands to the blossoms on another bush. 'A Golden Lady. Deep yellow flowers, orange at the centre.'

'I think you're right,' she smiled, moving closer to him again. 'I'm glad you like it,' she said, touching a hand to his shoulder. 'Most couples on this ship seem to head for the observation deck, but I thought in the circumstances…'

Spock straightened from the plants, and turned to her. 'Ordinarily, I would spend a very large amount of my duty time studying the stars. This is somewhere – entirely different. What has prompted Mr Sulu to grow roses?' he asked curiously. 'Is he conducting a study?'

'He's been trying to persuade the captain to have more plants in the recreation areas. I think roses are the first weapon in his arsenal.'

Spock lifted an eyebrow at the laughter in her voice. 'Roses as weapons,' he murmured. 'That is an – interesting tactic, considering the captain's romantic inclinations.'

'Your mother's garden must be beautiful,' Christine murmured, reaching out to touch the roses herself. 'With that Vulcan sky behind it.'

Spock cast his mind back to the last time he had stood in his mother's garden, with the slight shimmer of the forcefield above him, protecting the plants from the worst of the Vulcan heat. The sky had been dark orange, streaked with red, and with tiny ribbons of evening cloud that caught tones of vermilion and fuchsia and bronze-gold from the dying sun. The roses had surrounded him, the scent muted in the cooling air. His mother had stood next to him, not quite touching him, in the Vulcan way, but he could feel the pain radiating from her mind.

It had been four years ago that he had last made a fleeting visit to his parents' home. Even fifteen years after his decision to join Starfleet, his father's disapproval had been so thick in the air that it was almost impossible to spend time inside the house. His mother had tried and tried and tried to effect some kind of reconciliation, but it seemed impossible. Spock would not consider giving up his life's career, and his father would not bend to accept it. But he had noticed how there were new lines on his mother's face, and how his father seemed a little slower in his walk, and a little stiffer in his movements. He did not want this disagreement to act as a barrier between them for the rest of his father's life.

'I hope the garden is still as beautiful as it was the last time I saw it,' he said, with the regret fully evident in his voice.

'I – forgot about that,' Christine said quickly. 'I'm sorry. Have you not been there since – '

Spock turned to her, reaching out to find her arm. 'I last visited four years ago, when the ship was at Vulcan for five days.'

'I remember that,' Christine realised. 'It was – some kind of conference, wasn't it? Something about engineering?'

'A conference of the foremost warp engineers in the Federation,' Spock nodded. 'As I recall, Mr Scott was in his element, with seven men and women at the top of their field to which to show his _*wee bairns_*.'

'Oh and I – ' Christine's voice faltered, and Spock nodded slowly, remembering.

'You saw me in the corridor just after I beamed up from seeing my parents,' he said, remembering how her face had lit up at the sight of him, and how he had noticed but, as always, had pretended not to notice. 'You asked me if I had enjoyed my time at home. I – '

'You looked at me, with that cold look in your eyes that you get when you're not happy,' Christine continued for him. 'You – asked me if it was relevant to the ship's medical department to know whether or not you had enjoyed your vacation.'

'I am sorry, Christine,' Spock said softly. 'I'm afraid I've hurt your feelings too many times in the past, haven't I?'

'Oh, I always knew it was just the Vulcan way,' she said, looking sideways at the roses in their prim white containers. 'I just – It was crazy, but I used to miss you terribly every time you left the ship. I was so glad to see you back. You looked so well after all that Vulcan sun…'

'It is not the Vulcan way to hurt people unnecessarily,' Spock said, touching her cheek to turn her head back towards him. It had been obvious by her voice that she had not been able to look at him as she spoke. 'Perhaps – it is a half-human way… My parting with my parents had not been pleasant. Each time I visit I harbour an illogical hope that my father will change his mind, and each time I am disappointed, and my mother is disappointed – and my father is – like a wall of stone… I saw you in the corridor, so pleased to see me, and – you represented everything that I fight to resist. All that in me that is human.'

'Being human isn't all that bad, you know,' she said with a sad smile, looking up at his face that was expressionless despite the emotion behind his words.

'It is on Vulcan,' Spock said grimly. 'I spent each day as a child trying to become as Vulcan as those lucky enough to not have mixed blood. Fighting guilt at the human emotions I must keep at bay. Feeling guilt at allowing myself to succumb to such an illogical emotion as guilt. And then – I look into my mother's face, and see the pain caused to her by the rift between myself and my father. I would look into _*your_* face, and see the pain that would be caused to you if I allowed myself to accept your love. Are human emotions worth all that pain?'

'Perhaps you should allow yourself to experience some of the good emotions, not just the bad ones,' she told him softly. 'Happiness, hope, love, _*lust_*.'

Spock quirked an eyebrow upwards. 'I think I have experienced my fair share of those emotions recently, Christine,' he said, with a muted smile.

'Exactly,' she told him, folding his hand in hers. 'And the sky hasn't fallen in, and you haven't stopped being Vulcan, and – and your father hasn't called up the ship to tell you how illogical you're being,' she finished wickedly.

'That is true,' Spock nodded. He reached out to the roses again, and snapped one off from the plant a few inches down the stem. 'I may incur Mr Sulu's wrath,' he said, holding it out to her, 'but rank must have some privileges. Is it a pleasant colour?'

'It's beautiful,' she smiled, taking it from him. 'Dark red, like ceremonial velvet.'

'Perhaps tomorrow, during the operation, it may provide you with some of that illogical human hope.'


	15. Chapter 15

15.

It was early the next morning when Spock found himself in the _Enterprise_ transporter room, awaiting beam-down for his operation. In one hand he gripped the handle of his suitcase – the other was curled lightly about Christine's upper arm, his fingers relaxed only by a considerable effort. He could feel through the contact that she was more nervous than he was about the impending surgery – perhaps it was her nervousness to some extent that was rubbing off on him. One of the continual problems of close association with humans was their tendency to project emotions which he then had to separate from his own.

They had been in the room for less than a minute when the door slid open again and two sets of footsteps hurried through.

'All right,' Kirk said briskly as he entered the room. 'Shall we go do this, gentlemen?'

It was obvious that he, too, was nervous, and covering it as he so often did with bravado and verve. McCoy, evidently, was too caught up in his own thoughts to mutter more than a cursory greeting to Spock and Chapel as he stepped up onto the transporter pad.

'Good morning, Dr McCoy,' Spock said with a raised eyebrow as he followed Christine's arm up onto the transporter. 'Are you quite all right? It is not _*you_* performing or undergoing the surgery, is it?'

'Just a human thing called compassion,' McCoy said irritably. 'Perhaps you should try it one day.'

'I am grateful for your compassion, Doctor,' Spock said in a more tolerant tone. 'But your apprehension, from your position as a surgeon, doesn't fill me with confidence.'

'That's the thing about us emotional humans, Spock,' McCoy said tartly. 'Our feelings don't always have a logical basis. I know the operation's gonna go fine. I know you've got two of the best eye surgeons in the quadrant operating on you. But I'm not in control of it, and I don't like it. Just allow me to be worried for you, okay?'

'If you really wish to expend energy on such things, I cannot prevent it,' Spock nodded.

'All right, you two,' Kirk cut in before McCoy could reply. 'Enough. Energise, Lieutenant,' he said, raising his voice to the transporter operator, and the hum of the beam began.

Spock tried to cover a small stumble as the beam released him. Try as he might, it was almost impossible to beam anywhere without the moment of materialisation throwing him off balance. Every single time he had beamed down to the hospital and back to the ship in the past week he had found himself disoriented, and it didn't seem to be a problem that could be solved with practice.

'Small room, six pads,' Chapel murmured to Spock as he turned toward her. 'No steps.'

Spock nodded briefly, reaching out again for her arm. He had been able to glean the approximate size of the room from the sounds and sense of enclosure about him. The transporter room for the ophthalmic surgery patients was obviously a more private place than the communal transporter point for outpatient appointments. The fact of the lack of steps was intriguing, though. Was it a concession to frailty, or to blindness? He still felt deep unease at being a part of that demographic.

As they stepped forward from the transporter Spock's feet could clearly feel a tactile strip on the floor to mark its edge. Presumably the ophthalmology department was quite used to dealing with blindness.

As they left the pads a woman stepped from behind the transporter controls, and said crisply, 'Commander Spock, for the 0900 operation? Would you like to come over here and get signed in? Are you able to sign your name by conventional means?'

Spock nodded curtly. 'Quite able, if you show me where.'

He felt Christine's reassurance through the contact with her arm. He was quite aware that his own sense of apprehension at the impending surgery was impacting on his emotional control.

'May I ask what I'm putting my name to?' he asked as a pen was put into his hand. The padd he was handed was completely smooth, with no kind of tactile writing on it. Obviously they had realised there was little point in providing him with anything written in Rigel's own version of tactile print.

'It's purely a sign-in form,' Christine said, looking down at the padd. 'It states the time, the surgery you're going to have. Removal of the nictitating membrane in both eyes, to be performed by Dr Rudrik Isan, with the assistance of Dr Mark Helsand. That's all.'

'I see,' Spock nodded.

'Just here,' she said, moving the pen he held to the correct place on the padd.

As Spock was signing his name carefully on the padd the door opened, and he felt a more familiar presence entering the room. He turned his head curiously toward the footsteps, asking;

'Dr Helsand?'

'Oh, and Dr Isan,' Helsand's voice replied. He sounded, as always, a little distracted by something. Spock could only hope that his focus intensified once he was actually engaged in surgery. 'I beamed down a few hours ago to prepare, Commander. We're all set up for you.'

'Of course,' Spock nodded. He turned towards the other man, saying, 'Dr Isan, good morning.'

'Commander,' Isan said briskly.

Spock had sat through numerous consultations with this man over the past week, and he had always presented himself with the same brisk, businesslike attitude. Spock had never felt like anything more than an unusually interesting medical problem to the doctor. The man's attitude suited Spock perfectly, but he could tell that his bedside manner did not sit so easily with his human companions.

Isan looked about the room, assessing Spock's small party, his eyes lingering over Chapel's nurse's uniform.

'Were you hoping to assist, Nurse – ?' He looked at her questioningly.

'Chapel,' she said quickly. 'No, I'm not – but I'd very much like to observe.'

'A lot of people do. Your Commander Spock is quite a unique specimen.'

She glanced quickly at Spock, sure that he would not be pleased with being described in such a way, but his face held nothing but a look of polite interest.

'And Dr McCoy,' the doctor continued. 'You wish to observe too, I'm sure.'

'Well, of course,' McCoy nodded with a friendly smile. 'I'm more than interested in the outcome of this operation.'

'Well, then. The sooner the better. Just a few preliminary checks, Commander Spock, then we'll be ready to begin.'

******

Spock lay flat on a relatively comfortable mattress that smelt of antiseptic and cleaning fluids, under a sheet that clung too firmly to the contours of his body. The light that Dr Isan flashed into his eyes made him blink sharply as his damaged eyes tried, and failed, to react to the brightness. He felt curiously alone, despite the fact that this antechamber to the operating room contained Dr Isan, Dr Helsand, and at least three other nurses or technicians. The room was filled with quiet bustle and murmuring conversation, none of which seemed to concern him as a person, but only as the subject of a task to be fulfilled. Only Dr Isan was paying him any attention at this point in time.

'Your eyes will need time to heal after the operation,' Dr Isan was saying. He put the optical torch down with a snap onto a hard surface. 'Strictly – and I mean *_strictly*_ – no meditative healing processes. If you try to accelerate the healing you may scar. Your eyes will be paralysed and the irises held quite still until total recovery has been confirmed. That means absolutely no removal of the bandages until a doctor judges you ready. All scans will be taken with non-visual means. Is that quite clear to you, Commander?'

'It is quite clear,' Spock murmured. His mouth was dry, whether because of nervousness or the pre-anaesthetic drugs he could not tell. Although his body was almost totally relaxed, his mind felt alert almost to the point of distraction.

'Then we'll administer the anaesthetic,' Dr Isan said, and a hypo hissed against the bare skin of his upper arm. 'And perhaps in five, or six hours…'

The world blurred out around him…

…

…and reformed, first as a series of subtle sounds and smells. The tap, tap, tap of shoes on a hard floor. The scent of antiseptic again, and of Christine's perfume, and of – of Jim, close by to him. No time seemed to have passed at all – but there was an odd sensation of soreness behind his eyes, total lack of feeling in the eyes themselves, and the cling of soft, tight bandages hugging his face.

'Captain,' he murmured, but very little sound came out. He coughed a little, then asked again, 'Jim?'

'Here, Spock,' Kirk said immediately, putting his hand to Spock's shoulder. 'Miss Chapel just stepped out for a moment – just this second. It's just you and me.'

Spock nodded, digesting that simple information that seemed oddly hard to process. The drugs from the surgery were evidently still slowing down his synaptic responses.

'You're in the recovery room,' Kirk continued. 'It's a private room – just the bed, some chairs and some monitoring equipment. They said you'll be moved once you're over the anaesthetic.'

'The operation,' he murmured.

'Went as well as they could have hoped,' Kirk told him, and Spock could hear the gladness in his voice, tempered by that slight reluctance to build the Vulcan's hopes. 'They managed total removal of the inner eyelids, so you'll have to take a little more care with bright light from now on, but no more than the average human. They can't be sure how well your eyes have reacted to the removal until you've had some time to heal, but they're – very hopeful.'

Spock raised a hand clumsily to touch the bandages about his face. They felt thinner under his fingers than they had seemed at first, but there were thicker pads laid over his eye sockets. The sensation of numbness beneath the pads was quite odd, almost as if his eyes had been removed.

'Dr Helsand thought it might be possible to take the bandages off after four or five days,' Kirk continued. 'You'll probably only have to stay in for two nights – and that's just their standard post-operative procedure.'

'That is – ' Spock's voice gave out again, and he coughed uncomfortably.

'Here, Spock,' Kirk said quickly, and Spock heard glass clinking against glass, and liquid pouring. 'Have some water.'

Spock reached out for the glass, and took it carefully, letting the water wash across his throat in a wonderful, cold wave that seemed to bring the tissue back to life. He coughed again, then tried his voice.

'Thank you, Jim,' he nodded, passing the glass back again. 'I was attempting to say, that is a better prognosis than I was given to expect.'

'McCoy seemed pretty pleased with it, anyway. No you don't, Mr Spock,' he said firmly, as the Vulcan began to sit up. He reached out to Spock's shoulder, but he didn't need to restrain him, since Spock fell back to the pillow looking distinctly nauseous.

'They said it's best you don't try to sit up for a few hours,' Kirk told him. 'The drugs they had to use might affect your balance until they're out of your system.'

'Yes, I would say that is quite correct,' Spock said dryly, resting his head into the pillow and waiting for the odd sensation of being in a boat at sea to subside.

'Just lie still,' Kirk said firmly. 'They'll give you your first post-op check in a few hours, and let you know more about how the operation went. There's nothing you can do for now, anyway.'

'Yes,' Spock said, taking care not to upset his equilibrium by nodding. 'That is very true.'

It was the most frustrating fact about this whole process. No mental disciplines or stoical philosophies could do anything to alter the simple truths of biology. His only option now was to wait, and be patient.

******

After six days of sitting and waiting it was only Spock's discipline that kept him from unwinding the bandages himself. After two nights in the hospital he had opted to undergo his post-operative checks as an outpatient, and every time he beamed down for examination steady healing was observed by the doctors. He was certain that he barely needed even that cursory medical attention. In analytic meditation he could *_tell* _that the tissue of his eyes was healed. The soreness that had grown as the drugs wore off had faded away again, and in all respects his eyes _*felt_* totally normal. The only way to tell if they _*were_* normal would be to remove the bandages, but that was the one thing that was forbidden to him. It was ten times more frustrating walking about blindfolded than walking about blind.

The ship had left Rigel that morning, sent on an urgent mission to intercept a Klingon threat to Avilla Prime – all the more reason why Spock felt the imperative to discover whether or not he could see, and could return to duty. His treatment was now in McCoy's hands. He was about to enter sickbay for the regular examination that, up till now, had taken place every morning on Rigel, in the presence of either Dr Helsand or Dr Isan.

As he entered sickbay he could feel the presence of Christine. She was on duty that morning, and had left him just before six to start her shift. Whatever her duties were at this moment, she must have managed to manipulate them to allow her to be there for him when he came for his checkup. She knew as well as he did that this was the first day that there was any likelihood of the bandages being removed.

'Mr Spock,' she said quickly, coming to him as he came through the door.

There were other people present nearby, and her voice held the crisp note of duty that it always did when she was in the sickbay instead of the privacy of either of their quarters. Spock could not help but admire her discipline – it seemed to be a trait that few of his human shipmates could manage when they were engaged in relationships with other crewmembers. This morning, however, he could detect another layer of crispness in her voice – as if her tone was verging on brittle. Something was obviously bothering her, but it was beyond him to tell what without asking her or touching her mind.

'Dr McCoy's ready for you in the examination room,' she continued. As she touched his arm Spock felt the swell of affection that she was keeping from her voice. Still, behind it there was that pervading, prickly sense of unease, deeply buried as if to keep it from his senses. Then she said in a softer tone, 'He's hopeful about removing the bandages. You've been healing very well so far.'

'As am I,' Spock said, aware that his voice too held a greater level of tension than it should. He turned toward the examination room without preamble.

'Do – you mind if I come?' Christine asked, an odd note of uncertainty in her tone.

'I don't see a logical reason for a nurse to be present,' Spock began, turning back towards her. 'However – I would welcome your company.'

'I'm glad,' she said with a smile in her voice. She touched his arm, and he turned back to the examination room.

'Dr McCoy?' he asked as he entered the room. He could hear and sense McCoy in there, fiddling with something on the other side of the room.

'Ah, Spock,' the doctor said quickly, putting something down on the table with a clack. 'I guess Christine told you?'

'That you hope to remove the bandages?' Spock asked in a level tone. 'She mentioned the possibility, yes. Where do you require me?'

'Oh, the usual chair,' McCoy said in a distracted tone.

Even as Spock sat he heard the warble of a scanner very near his face. McCoy's impatience, at least, was enough for both of them. He would have no need to break his impassive emotional façade to hurry the doctor. He sat motionless while McCoy went through the now familiar list of checks and questions.

'Okay,' the doctor said finally. 'I'm going to go for it, Spock. Are you happy with that?'

'Perfectly,' Spock nodded.

'Okay,' McCoy said, his tone slowing a little. He drew up a chair and seated himself opposite the Vulcan. 'Understand, Spock, that if I see any sensitivity in the tissues on exposure to light, the bandages will be going right back on.'

'Yes, I understand,' Spock said levelly.

'You're going to see more light than you could see before,' McCoy told him clearly. 'That's about the only given in this situation.'

'And the variables?' Spock prompted him.

'Essentially there are three different symptoms, which could occur either separately or together. There's a possibility of scarring in the cornea, which would lead to blurred vision. There could be a reaction to the chemicals they used to target the inner eyelid, darkening the cornea – which would be something similar to the blindness you've been experiencing, but with greater light perception. The third option is a different type of scarring that would leave your iris unable to react to light, meaning you'd have great difficulty in varying light levels. None of the scans indicate any of that, but I need to observe the reaction of your eye in actual light, free of paralysis.'

'Then may I suggest that you proceed, Doctor,' Spock said, careful to keep all impatience out of his tone.

'All right,' McCoy murmured. 'Let me give you this,' he said, touching a hypo to Spock's arm. 'Metacansine, to counteract the paralytic agent keeping your eyes immobile. It'll begin to take effect instantly, but the paralysis will take a few hours to wear off totally. Now,' he said, carefully touching his hands to the bandages about Spock's head and slipping the cold blade of a pair of scissors under the fabric. 'Just a quick cut here… Christine, dim the lights, will you?'

'Of course, Doctor,' she replied, moving to the door. She had been absolutely silent until now, and when she spoke there was nothing in her tone but the professional response of a nurse to a doctor.

'Okay,' McCoy murmured again. 'Keep your eyes closed, Spock.'

He peeled the cut bandages away, and carefully removed the pads from Spock's eye sockets. There was an odd, naked feeling as skin was exposed to the air that had been covered for a week.

'All right,' McCoy said. 'It's very dark in here, Spock, so when you open your eyes you won't see anything. Christine's going to raise the light level slowly, just to help your eyes get used to it. Let me know straight away if you feel any pain. It's very important that you don't strain them if they're not ready. Understand?'

'Perfectly, Doctor,' Spock nodded.

'Okay. You can open your eyes now.'

The sense of tension in the room was almost physical. Spock lifted his eyelids slowly. They felt odd and sluggish after the drugs that had kept his eyes and eyelids paralysed. The darkness did not lift.

'Okay, Christine, start turning the lights up now,' McCoy continued. 'Very slowly.'

Spock blinked. He – saw. He actually _*saw_* the brightness growing as the light levels were slowly raised. He blinked again, as what was before him gradually began to resolve as the room grew lighter and lighter. All the while he could hear McCoy's scanner whirring.

The first thing that his eyes caught with any degree of clarity was the bright blue of another's eyes, bending close to him. He couldn't quite focus on the face surrounding those eyes, but the colour was momentarily mesmerising. He caught the joy as it rose, and carefully parcelled it away at the back of his mind.

'Why, Nurse Chapel,' he said in a measured tone. 'Your face is not at all as I remember it.'

A darkness opened up in the pink face as its owner guffawed with laughter.

'Spock, they gave you a sense of humour along with your sight,' McCoy said in amazement.

Spock blinked, resisting the urge to scrub his hands over his eyes. They were prickling as if the wind had blown dust into his face.

'_*Sight_* is a noun that deserves qualification,' he said seriously. 'I can see colours, and a rough impression of your facial features, Dr McCoy. But my vision is far from perfect.'

'Any pain?' McCoy asked seriously. 'You're registering as perfectly healed on the scanner. There's good reaction in your irises, despite the effects of the paralytic.'

'There is no pain,' Spock said truthfully. 'Only some minor irritation at the surface of the eyes.'

'Let me put some drops in,' McCoy said, picking up a small white phial from the surface by the chair. 'Your eyes are very dry. Tilt your head back so you're looking at the ceiling.'

Spock raised his face, silently relishing the fact that someone could employ the present participle _*looking_* in relation to him with any kind of literal meaning. McCoy's hand laid over his forehead, one thumb raising his eyelid as he dropped stinging liquid into the Vulcan's eyes. Spock blinked swiftly, feeling the gritty sensation gradually fading away. The view before him began to resolve a little more, until he could read the anxious expression on the doctor's face.

'It is – improving,' Spock said cautiously.

'Helsand said it might take a bit of time for your vision to recover properly. The paralysis drug needs to wear off completely, and your eyes have been unused for a while. They're out of shape, just like any other part of your body would be after so long. But – Spock, you can _*see_*.'

The joy in McCoy's voice expressed every ounce of Spock's own, inexpressible joy. He looked down at the cane that was so intimately familiar to his fingers, that he had never seen before, trying to reconcile its appearance with its texture. He turned his attention to his own hands – to his knuckles and smooth fingernails. His vision was not perfectly clear. He could not yet make out the whorls and patterns of his fingerprints – but he could _*see_* his own hands, the blue of his shirt sleeves, the gold bands denoting his rank… The colour, the visual texture, the three dimensional, far-reaching scope of the sense… It was fascinating to the point of distraction.

'Well,' McCoy began, suddenly sounding awkward. 'I've done all I can for you now, Spock. Check in with me in a few hours to let me know how your sight's improving. I'll – er – leave you two alone for a bit.'

Spock raised his head, startled. He had almost forgotten Christine's presence. She was hanging back at the side of the room, silent, and her face was too blurred to make out any expression on it.

'Yes. Er … thank you, Doctor,' he said falteringly, dropping his gaze back to his hands and the cane he did not need. He heard, rather than saw, McCoy leaving the room, and he murmured, 'Computer, engage privacy lock.'

He raised his head again, seeing that she was still standing immobile at the side of the room, her hands clasped together as an indistinct mass over her stomach, her dress a block of bright blue between the copper of her head and the two flesh-coloured columns of her legs.

'I'm so pleased for you, Spock,' she said finally, taking a step forward. When she spoke, he could hear the smile in her voice, threaded through with – the slight shakiness of some undefined emotion.

Spock got to his feet, moving towards her until he was close enough to make out her facial features more clearly. But he suddenly faltered, unsure of how to meet her eyes. His father had told him time and time again that his eyes were his failing in attempting to mask his emotions. Something seemed to happen when his eyes met the eyes of others that opened up a channel to the interior of his soul. It was so much easier to deal with emotion when he knew that that part of him, at least, was veiled to outside scrutiny.

'It has changed things, hasn't it?' she asked, in a voice of ghostly sadness.

'Yes,' Spock said softly, examining his hands again. He put the cane aside, experiencing the strangeness of _*seeing_* the clack the object made as it touched the table. 'It is inevitable that it would change things.'

'I was telling the truth,' she said. He could see now that her hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were white – eight blurred rosettes of whiteness against the pink of her fists. 'I _*am_* so happy for you. But – I'm just – sorry for…'

'Christine,' Spock said softly, taking her hands, feeling the backs of her fingers and her smooth fingernails, and letting his eyes follow the path of his fingertips. 'Did I not say to you, _*I do not make fickle associations. I do not share my mind and my body for a casual fling_*? Whatever my emotional failings, they are my own.'

He finally looked up, seeing that the blue of her eyes was misted with tears. He touched a hand to her face, tracing the dampness on her cheek, then threaded his fingers through the hair at the edge of her face.

'I have been waiting for what seems like a very long time to see this,' he said. 'I anticipate seeing it with the clarity I am used to. At the moment I am – rather severely myopic.'

He drew her face closer to him, touching her lips with his own in a momentary kiss that turned into something deeper and longer lasting as he closed his eyes and let go of his emotional restraint. He had adjusted to enough changes in the past few months. It was only a matter of time before this change, too, became an accepted part of his life.


	16. Epilogue

Epilogue.

Forty-eight hours after the bandages were removed, Spock sat in his quarters, staring with fascination at the various devices that had seemed so important to him in his blindness, that now had no use for him at all. When he ran his fingertip over the Braille cards that Christine had made up for him, so long ago it seemed, his mind could not quite conceive of how he had even begun to learn to read that type, that was so clear with sight, and so indistinct under his fingertips.

It had been as little as two hours ago that he had, at last, been able to look about his quarters with perfect clarity of sight. His eyes had been improving all the time, but it was a combination of McCoy's eyedrops and a period of carefully controlled meditation in a darkened room that had finally dispelled those last inconsistencies of focus. When he glanced to see the time now there was no need for him to peer close to the numbers to read them. They said, very clearly, 7:14 – even looking from his position sitting behind his desk to the clock on the opposite wall.

Fourteen minutes past seven. Christine's shift was due to have ended at seven precisely. But then there was the time that it would take to walk from sickbay to his quarters, and, of course, humans were invariably late. They found themselves involved in a task they could not drop, or talking to a colleague or friend about inconsequential subjects and then, they would say, _*time just got away_*, as if it was a substance to be held rather than a quantifiable scientific dimension. But they would be at Avilla Prime in just half a day, and he found himself anxious to make the most of this particular period of time before the current calm and stability on the _Enterprise_ was upset again.

Spock shuffled the Braille cards together into a neat pile, and then dropped them into the recycler beneath his desk. There was little use in keeping them. If they had any sentimental value, it was only because of how long Christine had spent making them for him – but her motives were encapsulated in her, not in pieces of textured card. He had little desire to keep reminders of that dark time.

He went to his small cooking alcove, and began to fill the water heater for tea. He counted almost instinctively, even as he watched the clear, glistening water fill the container. As he was pouring the freshly boiled water into the teapot there was a buzz at the door, and he said sparsely;

'Come.'

The door swished open as he was giving the leaves a single stir in the pot, and he turned around only as it closed. If he had been holding the pot at that point, he would have been in serious danger of burning himself.

She was wearing a sleeveless dress of fresh, leaf-green fabric, that seemed to cling to her body like paint every place that it touched, and hang as insubstantial as a veil of morning rain wherever it did not. The colour was echoed by the long, multi-jewelled earrings that trailed almost to her shoulders, and set off by the copper-bronze of her hair that was woven and plaited intricately about her head. He could not imagine that that sleek fabric would stand any underwear to interfere with its smoothness, and he could not see a single line on her body that hinted of anything of the sort.

Spock stood with his lips parted for a long moment, then shook himself, and said honestly, 'There are many words coming to me, but none of them have a logical basis…'

A smile touched her lips. He took a step forward, staring at the minute details of her form. This was the first time that he had truly _*seen_* her – clearly enough that he could see the flame-like striations of her irises in varying shades of blue, the shaded darker band about the edges, the fathomless black of her pupils. The curls of her eyelashes reflected in her eyes, each loose strand of copper hair glittered about her face. The green gems in her earrings sent sparks of refracted light dancing across the white skin of her neck.

'You – are allowed to speak,' she suggested softly. 'Even if you don't say anything logical.'

'I do not wish to speak,' Spock said, almost in a whisper.

He touched his hand to the back of her neck, tracing the tips of his fingers across her skin even as he gently moved her closer, orienting himself this time by letting his eyes settle on the soft, red pillows of her lips, before closing the distance and letting his own lips caress hers. He searched into her mouth with his tongue, his fingers roaming into her hair, destroying the carefully arranged braids and strands by slow degrees.

'Don't disturb it too much,' she said with a smile as Spock finally drew back from her. She touched a hand to her head, trying to gauge how easily the damage would be repaired. 'The captain's arranged something for you. We're expected in – ' She glanced at the clock. ' – fifteen minutes.'

Spock looked up at the clock himself, raising an eyebrow. 'The captain has arranged an event scheduled to start at nineteen thirty two?'

She fixed him with a mock glare. 'I almost preferred it when you couldn't check my accuracy,' she said. 'The captain has arranged an event to start at nineteen _*thirty_*. He specifically requested that you wear dress uniform, and that I – well – '

She looked down at the dress she wore, then raised her face to him with a smile.

'I think I *_must_* wear dress uniform if I'm to rival your attire,' Spock pointed out.

He moved to his closet, and took the formal tunic from the rail, laying it out on the bed, before going to the little surface below his mirror, and taking a silver-coloured ornament out of a sleek black box.

'What is that?' she asked curiously, coming over to him.

'Surely you have come across the concept of IDIC?' Spock asked, holding up the ornament for her to see. It was a silver disc, holed off-centre, and pierced with an arrow of different metal. At the tip of the arrow sat a single jewel that looked like a diamond.

'Oh, I have,' she said in fascination. 'Infinite diversity in infinite combination. But I've never seen such a beautiful representation – just sketches in books.'

'It is rather apt, don't you think?' he asked, pinning what she now realised was essentially a brooch to the right breast of the dress tunic.

'Very,' she smiled. 'I rather like your philosophy of diversity in combination,' she said, tracing a fingertip along the upswept point of one ear. 'But we're going to be late,' she said seriously. 'I wouldn't want to disappoint the captain.'

'No,' Spock said.

Without preamble he slipped his regular tunic off and replaced it with the dress one, checking momentarily in the mirror to see that the IDIC was placed at the correct height, and that his hair was neat.

'It took me a little longer to get ready this evening,' Christine smiled, taking the opportunity to lean close to the mirror and put her hair back to rights. 'You don't realise how easy the male of the species has it.'

Spock regarded her as she bent towards the mirror. He had not realised until now that there was almost nothing to the back of the dress from neck to waist. The thin bands of the high collar fastened behind her neck, but below that, the entire length of her back was bare, almost down to her buttocks. For a single second an entirely irrational flame of jealousy speared through him that human men must have seen that long, tantalising view in the corridors, before he had set eyes on it here.

'For that, I can only be grateful,' he said, stroking a hand down the length of her exposed spine.

She turned, fully aware of the masculine, heated surge of desire that was rising in his mind.

'Come on,' she said, catching hold of her hand. 'If I get any more thoughts like that from you, we won't be going anywhere, and I wouldn't want to disappoint the captain.'

'No,' Spock said, half regretfully. 'Christine, do you – have a wrap of sorts? You will be cold.'

She smiled brightly. Each tiny instance of primitive Vulcan arousal in him created a spark of sunshine in her mind. Before all of this had happened, she had never imagined that she would be able to rouse jealousy and passion in him.

'I will not be cold,' she said firmly. 'You don't mind, do you, if the captain and Leonard and a few other senior officers see my back? It's – not logical to be self-conscious about it. After all, it's only skin.'

Spock raised an eyebrow, but he didn't reply for fear of betraying very _*illogical_* sentiments.

******

It was, as Christine had implied, only a very small reception, comprising the captain, Dr McCoy, Mr Scott, and Lieutenant Uhura, gathered together in one of the _Enterprise_'s small meeting rooms that had been redressed for a formal, silver-service meal. The evening was characterised by fine food and relaxed conversation – but Spock found himself continually distracted by the glimpses of that sleek green dress and expanses of smooth, touchable skin beside him. It was simple enough to keep his desire under control, but he did not find himself sorry when the final course was cleared and the last few drops of alcohol were drained from the glasses.

'I thought you'd like it better than a surprise party,' Kirk confided to Spock as the small party began to disperse. 'But I had to do something. Bones told me your eyes were just about back to normal, and what with this thing kicking off tomorrow – '

'This is quite pleasant,' Spock said, raising his eyes to Kirk's face. At the moment he was continually fascinated by studying the minute details of those faces that had been hidden to him for so many weeks. 'And it is more to my taste than a surprise party.'

'Well, Spock,' Kirk said, some awkwardness entering his voice. He could help but notice the way the Vulcan's eyes kept tracking across the room towards where Christine Chapel stood, deep in conversation with Uhura and McCoy. 'I guess it's time to break up the party. I think it may be a long day tomorrow.'

'Yes, I am anticipating my first duty shift,' Spock nodded.

'Your first – ' Kirk echoed. 'You mean to put yourself back on the active duty list, Spock?'

Spock nodded succinctly. 'My eyesight is fully restored, Jim. I have no reason to excuse myself from duty tomorrow, and we will be dealing with the Klingons, with all their attendant uncertainties.'

'Well then,' Kirk nodded. 'I'll change the roster. I guess Mr Chekov won't mind not having to be up for an early shift. You go on, Spock,' he said, touching his arm as he saw his gaze moving yet again to that bright flash of green between Uhura and McCoy. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

'Thank you, Captain,' Spock nodded. Then, raising his voice, he said with a certain degree of self-consciousness, 'Miss Chapel. Would you accompany me?'

'Of course, Mr Spock,' she said instantly, breaking off her conversation and coming to him with a flashing smile. He did not object when she touched her hand to his arm.

'I have heard it is traditional for couples to rendezvous on the observation deck,' he said in a low voice as they made for the door. 'Would that be amenable to you?'

'Oh, very,' she smiled. 'But – ten o'clock on a Friday night – we might find it a little crowded.'

Spock raised a dark eyebrow, a glint of mischief in his eye as he looked at her.

'I designated the observation deck off limits earlier to allow a scientific experiment to be held there. Foolish of me, but rescinding the order afterwards quite slipped my mind…'

'Oh,' she said softly. 'And the experiment?'

Spock raised his eyebrow again. 'I quite forgot to perform it. But – the code-restricted lock is still active on the door. I did not confide the code to anyone else. We would have – complete privacy.'

She looked up at him as they entered the privacy of the turbolift, letting her eyes settle on his.

'You can see, perfectly, can't you?' she asked, touching a hand to his cheek, then tracing her finger along one upswept eyebrow. 'Those beautiful eyes – they see me, don't they?'

'I would dispute whether my eyes were beautiful,' Spock said. 'But yes, I do see you, perfectly, as you say.'

'Dr McCoy said your readings were so good this morning. He expected you to have regained normal vision by this evening. That's why I risked the dress. I hoped…'

'Dr McCoy was quite correct,' Spock nodded. He stroked a hand down her arm, then fixed his dark eyes on her blue ones. 'When we are on the observation deck we will have an opportunity to test the ability of my eyes to discern far objects – and also closer ones. I have not yet managed to make out how the fastening works on that exquisite garment.'

She smiled, a blush colouring her cheeks as she read the Vulcan's intentions.

'I would be very happy to demonstrate it to you, Mr Spock,' she said. 'In the interests of science, of course.'

Spock nodded, a smile touching his lips, but fully evident in his eyes.

'When the bandages were removed, you thought for a moment that this was at an end, did you not?' he asked her as the lift doors opened. 'Do you think, perhaps, that we are actually at a beginning?'


End file.
